When leaf drips off the plants like dew
I know I have failed
Fog on poor gold settled thick
And knuckly branches grasp at my trousers
As they whisper by

Like a nightmare full of the dead

Sorry, I say
With that same wet-paper voice of mine
My footprints forgotten
On dust-dressed tiles
I cannot water you, dear Pothos
I need not
You have no limbs left to feed and
I know I have failed

Failed.

(And so mine a being
In an echoing of souls)

Failed?
Such pretty your tales
And freeing miseries

Sinking frantic
In a devour of spring
These the tentacles of my beautiful Aloe
These the stout roses
My,
My mirthful Jasmines
And grasses–– alive!

Failed?

Green at last!

You bathe in blues and
Craft tragedies from mud
Ruin your love
And despair a bed-slave pretty

Could I weep–– interrupt or scream
But I am wood and they are not

Failed?
Or would you rather?
For fall for you is an effortless flight
And funeral the only peace
Then mourn!

Could I shut the window and
Bar it against the raging city
But breaks— it breaks breaks breaks!

Mourn and mourn!
Till the daylight goes to sleep
And mourn with your wretched stars
For the night

You mock!
Oh, be voiceless, sessile
Thorns again!

And when in the morning
The moon is dead
And thinner our stems
We will say
With that same parched clinging of ours:
We are not dust yet
Are you?

––

the house smells like a melting wire

and
   outside

city
smoke, leaf–– kite

I lie by my window
an old god covered in age
once painted, now
white is my name

but it is suddenly so lovely

I watch my world grow
once clumsy babbling
it talks now endless

somewhere
     sun subsiding

and I am not rot

I am not rot

this is a whisper I will not let go

I run my stoney hand
on my stoney hand
my hand
the hand of an archeologist
uncovering time from time
and my hand
the trembling power of a painter
unsure fingers with a half-filled quill

I rewrite— strangely— verse after obsolete verse
red and blue and dawn on dust

glittery awakening-– heavy and sour
white sightless eyes on history focused

exit centuries
like lather through sink-– exit war and tomb-people
exit sunken empires where deities go to die
–– exit exit exit!

          open the window!

in a flood thick

awash this skin, porcelain and stone
awash tongue forgotten, awash pupil

an artefact arm
slowly mobile
a hand blooming to veil the light
from wet, blinking eyes

a rickshaw bumbles by
a van singing
even the quiet whistling of a
bicycle’s chain
it’s getting cold

my socks? where did— here they are

the house still smells like a melting wire
but Faizan said
that Saad said that
he is bringing pizza on his way home

and outside
grey-gold fades

slowly— strangely—
I am not rot

        a melting's quiet sniffs

I am not rot

imagine a brick box lined with paint where
zebra and lip-red walls wobble as I
rest my forehead in a coiling of arms
on the stubborn palm of this plastic chair—
I feel you singing singing slow as I
build myself a night wide

where water rises up like bread;
and turn all students to fish and
turn all chatter to bubbles
that slide and collide and settle by the roof
and settle and settle
undying till the room
is a pomegranate cursed with fertility, and I
dare not gasp lest another bubble
should— press and press

imagine a blue sea bubbling like
sugar that melts and melts and
melts and melts
in the slowly-shrinking pan
I shut my ears
and build myself a silence and I
feel you right here
— a few rows behind—
our separate solitudes tangled up

a song faint as feathers, as fire
lit up; as the fish babble on—
your sea-creatures whirling: and
corrals’ tickling devours
that clothe me in Magic—

imagine peach-pink lips
that smile— dragonflies swishing by
imagine buzzes that they leave to sway
in the blushing airs, imagine
grasses fluttering their pompous lashes
imagine— oh, and

a paradox of suns that
pulls me in— prickling eyes
black and brown as cocoa in coffee and
soft as foam— yet suns, you see!
I dare not see, yet return
and return I stumbling do,

skin feasts in sweetness
of a warmth serene, and
the taste lingers all day long—
swear in stars are whispers of you
tossed to constellations' lively tales
and misty dreams shroud lazy mornings
where I and you and all
the unshed covered faces of ours
are free to sprout, where we
cling to limbs and limbs in
the deep rich beds of our soils

I lift my head as the teacher enters
and I know the water you
breathe in too
the churning viscosity presses in in

your swift silver thoughts
drowning in noise— and no one is listening
to the teacher—
my iron neck I twist to glance your way
fast as the flickering tail of a squirrel, yet
you clasp me still
— there—
the clack as breaths lock and hold

you sit all alone and, oh, do I—

I wish I could stand up and swim my
way to you
'hey, this seat’s empty, right?
mind if I sit?'
your orange 'yes' or maybe a leaf-like
nod, or a gust of shrug perhaps
then we talk and talk with
the fish all rest, and maybe we forget the smother
maybe we forget the fish

but I— a statue sunk centuries ago
waves kiss my valour and lure it away
star-shapes settling on my tongue
******* out words, and—

heart a squid blooming and clenching
I curse the idol I have built of myself
sit and sit I sessile a stone and
try not to drown, try not to drown
to boil to bleed or scream a soundless bubble alright
you, the fantastical, faraway land resting

a glimmer motionless where sea
licks the void, where children go
when there is nowhere to go,
where I think I will row one day one day one—
can you tell I have a crush on you?
I hope not

take my hand and bless me a metaphor
wholly mine— or— maybe I could spin you a blossom as your
lovely gown teases the night—

alas, but here begins the teacher

garlands
blooming within themselves
like the fast-forwarded movements
of a gyre’s quiet devour;
splashes dressed in white
that play by my feet

it is difficult to paint
more so to say
the reckless curiosity of water and wave

a little childish I am
stumbling around the banks of secretive songs
—dirges drowsy that move like silk
and violins’ exaggerated tales
drumbeat rains where Indian brides are known to blush
and acoustic plucks—
drop on bead-like drop
upon my clammy palm

I want all

slip and sink I
within the ongoing skies
fish and bird and moon I meet
shell and bone and mud

a little naive I am
relishing the gusts of sand that
through my curled up hand
gush

it is difficult to learn
more so to sing
the reckless curiosity of shimmer and sun

white and greying gold
on the sand-paper shore

head in a garland of arms
and eyes— breathing
all in
blind with the intensity of gaze

a little ragged I am
a little paper-boat astray
a little cloud painted that forgot to bleed

(a little parched field)

So white
I thought it would tear through
Red revolution, gritting stones
Electric convulsions
And ivory tides

I felt children weep
Soft, long sleeves soggy as lattice
That, flayed to leaf, too long
On porcelain lay
Hisses and gasps—
Were sobs always so volcanic?
Like suns— erupting— quite not—
Wilting— to stars— blinking—
Gushing upon—
Each other; a strange confiding
Nakedness

And feathers
In bronze dressed— stuttering—
Stuttering, bubbling
Would that the flood would loosen

Rather melt—

Rather the moon than Jasper,
— It’s gory quiet
Rather pebble
Rather mud-licked bumbling babble

But melt— melt— Oh,
Never quite full for the night!

I feared it would burst
Crowds of red-cloaked seeds
Into a havoc of fruit and flesh

I feared I a dandelion
Would open— would sway away, away
From bits and bits— of me, but

It hit— hit, hit hit
The jagged black insides of mine
And I was real

I was real

Gasping— gasping, till it—