When news of his would-be death arrived, his body sterile in white cloth, serene his was, his finest stupor – clinging on to a drip of life, his tongue a strawberry his mother recounted,
forcing him into, his senses dulled, it was 1996: else there was understanding, there was a hand in a hand that is a latticed rose of beauty – or unbeauty, the high prayer of it,
they sat in front of the room facing a mute wall for days weeping or laughing. The rustling of the daily paper broke silence not news – his dearth was sure.
no more almost was when he went sharply in a field of grass, his shredded amusement received by an unfolding – it was his years sideswiping him later on, his indices of age revealing an undulant postscript
to which there were imaginary sky-portfolios and a particular representation of a smoothened end of a smoking gun he held now, years after, years later on
a portion of it his mouth pressed on a lover’s, and a footnote hidden deep within his pelvis: come back here when laden