I don't know why I cover my nakedness
with doors dressed in tantalizing ajarness,

why the clock, when I punch through it,
gets lodged on my wrist & when I try to
shake it off makes me jerk off the air,
orgasming in a breeze that ruffles nothing
but the everything of me - never go into
the river with wounds, fish will lick them healed

& no one will ask you how you got those scars
& you will not narrate the solar myth labor

behind it - you won't wake up with the nebulous
idea of existence, wet cloth on your forehead,
back of fingers feeling throat, palm in palm
in palm, no touch to bridge energies -

I don't know why I wrote haikus under benches
as if benches are for anything more than chewing
gum punctuation & lunchboxes before lunch-

appetite, when I lose it, will give way to digestion,
of the smells of the lunchboxes of the benches
still opened ahead of its time, by rusted words,
that pinch of sugar, that pinch of fingers that wait
on you swallowing a bitter herb when you woke up
with the nebula.

~Ajay
29/8/19
First appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review