Weary of heart that never disappears,

Despair of unshed salt lake, the horrid sun

putting pity with glare, my maiden fingers

are still fighting for running, over the keypad

in the muse-filled night, gushing in a ceaseless

moan, wait for the weaving loom patterns

but work with the rest, pretend as if

it’s never there, boxes after box: piling

up in the branches of burden sack,

city breeze plays, odd ways of drawing

breath in the livelihood flesh.

“I love the way it’s stuck,” she whispers

with the white wheel, spinning in the pitch

black road, emerging in the weariness

tadpole, “What might you fear, must stay.

What you don’t say, must stick.”

He gasps for his leaf-cutter in the golden age.

Glance— flicker in the flame,

It’s gone as if it’s never there,

Slender fingers, smoothing crust,

The world’s weary, the wind’s in east,

Blowing the last hope of grain dust.

— 12th May, 2024.