Once I dipped my fingers in molten wax. No
injury but a molecular amount of pain that
drowned in a flick. And then the wax wrapped
my skin as another skin. This turned out to be
a kind of pleasure. I refashioned from a moment
which otherwise was a mirror image of nothing.
To be on the bed and wait to be victim of sleep
is simply the life of a dried well in summers. How
I can’t explain why I pick autumn leaves and give
them a safe home in a box. I’ve plenty. They overflow
and crunch each other like spent desires. Inside the
diorama of my senses. What do I know about my
versions. I still say hello and not hi. Hello city. Hello
moon. Hello squirrel. On their ways where I am
uninvited. I am left to celebrate the ceremony of
loneliness. How, what we have in abundance, we
forget to celebrate. The first memory of when I felt
devastated lies difficult in its undoing. Has anyone
read the sentence silence wrote. Centuries ago. It has
an unsoundable train that passes through this poem.
Like the sky that mingles with other sky in beyondness
of us. It is also a relief to emerge from a body like an
emergency. I do it. At the end uphold the miscalculation

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