Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Smell a world with tears and spice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

You sleep with your fast growing collagen,
Recovering the jet-lag of the unknown I surmise,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Yet to come the tag that latches on to your origin,
when living each day has its invaluable price,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Will you belong to the cigarettes and scent of gin,
Or shall I see you chase dreams left to their own device,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

There might be peace or violence had here you been,
You could be a well-built fortune or a random dice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

And I am witnessing this, without sorrow or grin,
Wonder, distress and an expired love that will suffice.
Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

You failed
not waterproof
you allowed water
to fall into
feet bottom skin

Lucky we had
enough of you
we juggled you
in the leaky shoes
that were
no good either

Next time
you’ll be worn
inside trek shoes
so that
you wouldn’t have to
taste the marshy
stink of feet bottom
the premonition
of possible fever

I am your low roar     of distant thunder,
you are my intense     flashes of lightning.

I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.

We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment

sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.

Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.

Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?

Seeking Reply
Letter A

Amazing, curve of an arm,
wave of a hand speed breaking
over the stretch marks on lower back
feeling the lines like the habit
of taking corners of clothes and sheets
pressing in between the gaps
of *******, a pleasure
no one else ever even sees.

Wrap of an arm, making the back
and front the ancient interior China,
the arm, the great wall of China,
protecting from sadness
and occasional loneliness.

Curve of the legs fitting the other
like they were two rods under thermal stress.
The vastness of the *** comforting the lack
of it on most days, when my body hair
is as natural to you as blinking,
I miss how two bodies become void
In the shape of night’s silence, the arc