little child, who is asleep,
whose innocence
is the milky way on his lips:
to whom do you call Mother?

little child, the moon’s crescent
lays like a birthmark on your cheek,
and your single strand of hair
the trail of a meteor’s heat:

why are you crying?

little child, do not cry – go to sleep.
a blue-green pearl sits
where your heart is – and beats:
they will find your Mother.

Existence stretches itself
like a rubber cap
strenuously spanning birth and death
Fitted tightly over the grease
and wheels while it waits
cross-legged, unhurried
(flipping calendars)
for the groan that halts
its throbbing clockwork

Even when Life first has snapped

write himself between the lines
and not at the end of them

forget himself between the writing
and not at the end of them

greet himself between the poems
and not at the end of them

want himself between the shelves
and not at the end of them

put himself between the poets
and not at the end of them

find himself between the covers
and not at the end of them

a poet shouldn't impose himself between,
at the end,

not even at the start

"People are so hard to understand.
They are like earpieces casually stuffed
in the pockets of their private lives.
And when they step out of their stuffy
homes, they demand to have others
locate their origins, their mid-points and
their ends where you stuff your ears in.
Demand that from cords in infinite loop.
Demand that without an instruction manual."
I wanted to interject, but your sentences ran
into each other and morphed into these
pseudo-words, pseudo-rants without ends
to stuff into your ears and listen.
I would have said that people were fine
without beginnings or destinations or
instruction manuals. That behind the
metal prisons of these speakers lay
sounds, to be played into ears and
listened to. Told to.

Tucked away
ribcage-bound,
each rib enumerating
a decade or a time
the heart retreats
to lick its wounds

If I tuck my heart
deeper, will you
excavate back to Eden
the origin of emotion?

his words at first tongue felt
fell like snowflakes melting

his teeth shuddered choirs
were refracting colours

his page flew
like inked summer birds migrating to

his breaths
his breaths exhaled northern lights

Removed for literary journal submission.