my father, his fingers, their impressions

robe the cup of tea in biometric frescos

with milk flirting its stormy lips / spoons

tickling heat from its cold steel body

dethroned from a kitchen limbo life to the

bright morning light of nervous capacity //

how much can a vessel of hands that unblues

water hold / will it spill, will it stain, can it

sustain the mouths it must face jaw gated

with deep voiced corridors up to the throat

& down to the bone // but my father, his

impression, their fingers, climb a stair of

silence / whisper the doors open / hold the

cup with pink wrinkled soft brown flesh

like a crystal tower moated in his hammock

arms strained with memories that stray &

return / lost & found in losing daylight // these

things, all his under mine, I chase & seek

hunt & find / on the only working computer

mouse in the house / inside the golden-armed

titan watch / on the tore ten rupee note he saved

to cellotape later // but left behind in moving

ahead, I reach to touch if he's gone / & wait if

he's still leaving / like an undressing wind turn

ing a prayer wheel in silent thorny places

~Ajay
19/6/2020