a kind of metal

for irregular circles
the voices we will use
to sing to the saplings
the hands we will give
to the cold and hopeless
the force of the waves
in our cradle of life
the new dreams we leave
before we turn to stone
to sort of believe
we are, and thats that

a grainy spring

filled with texture
and water wings
a theater for trishanku
new and impossible faiths
yawning memories of furniture
and he adjusted his dockers
and explained to me
waving bejewelled fingers
right of course
this creeping cold

sum practical

through tunnel, through box
light filtrated cages
chains and strings
a trillion viewpoints
instant and inarguable
all held forth and together
for meanings already beyond
my puny lifescale
as are proofs, revisits
and replays
I become
unimaginably small
in the best of times

translucent and flowered

curled along the edges
lifted on leather wings
slid under, quiet so quiet
strafed around arches and vanes
her eyes sifting slowly
with many rushing thunders
round and inchoate
between deja vu
the force majeure
sunrise on weather winds
tilted with raindrops
through sugar and leaves
to draw horizons with chalk

happy new year

watching the love story
of ana ros and her sommelier
over dinner on new years eve
curd rice from aurora temple
gongura pickle from vishnu foods
chundo pickle, masala banana chips
from rajeshree grocers
with mildly fermented
fruit punch and pomegranate juice
from walmart, burlingtons
and I dont know
if all these people
loved me
from the taste of it
I believe so