watching sprouts is like waiting for fathers to return.

the doors are rarely used.
why do I dream of doors -

a chord rises in a dog
under a classroom bench and sets
in his brother under a traffic light, a carbon hymn
unsung but inhaled ritually, like some dogs are buried

in instagram, like soil is a pinch of dear dogs &
a bunch of undear, bony, wheezy, limping,
already tomorrow dreaming dogs.

snipping sprouts is like watching mothers make myth -
fabric because modesty, like watching nymphs get tired

wandering here in dream -
walking over here in dream,
in dream being far from her hymn.

~Ajay
2/9/2019