Synapsis
There was a time
I loved continuities
To wake up, stare at the sun,
scrawl a thin cursive ‘e’
in my moleskine
Walk at the usual hour
I wanted to meet you in the arms
of twilight, say goodbye
with the first dripping moonbeams
Patterns do not soothe anymore
I walk to the farthest edge of the woods
in a profusion of pines and cypresses
The air too speaks to me
in an alien tongue
You seem so far away
I shed my last reserves
To reach you in the silence
of a stillborn night
Only our bodies speak
I write my messiest scrawl
also the most beautiful
A Story
run your hand through my hair
and feel the whole world
pass through your fingers
Migration
Migration is a flower
I press close to my body
Its ascetic perfume
colours my want
I don’t want new things anymore
My feet sink into the softness
Of a faded rug
My mother's pearls clink
Into the silent spaces of my soul
I want to wear those shoes
Till they are bleached white
I find each leaf of a fragrant
darjeeling steeped in memory
I want to speak and feel the syllables
Of my language on my tongue
All I feel now is a soft fall
into another new abyss
Paved with wild flowers
And
The moon
is a black hole
covered with jasmines
This Morning
I opened my eyes
and saw an island
inside myself
I closed my eyes again
a red poppy swam on my eyelids
A neighbour played the piano, and
I felt a silent rebellion
floating on the keys
A red rain suddenly descended
Of late I have lost memory
Bought roses when
I should have
bought butter
Eye Mask
cool lavender on my eyelids
spreading on my dreams
a purple autumnal forest
Coils of Memory
The coils of memory
are cruel
If only ma had not fed me five almonds
every morning
If only her nightsong had not lodged
In the ruby-throated nightingale
If I could forget my religion
and music
This city would also lose
A silent believer
It won’t then seep into my consciousness
Like last dregs of remorse in my tea cup
An old hymn cleaves my spirit into two halves
One colours the tea a deep gold
and
The other floats on the lips of a heretic
This Morning
This morning is a warbler
a desire, a tender green trellis
on a wrought iron arch
a heart of sweet yellow pollen
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