turn ing spinning turning on my own axis slow and not steady sometimes i pass the moon and we talk she brews lemon grass kehwa drizzles cinnamon powder i add honey swirling it round and round till we merge in the elements darkness smells of cinnamon and you
you say you are here you say i look for you maybe i do not look for you the vortex blurs my sight or mayhe you are not here maybe i am blind
march is a sorry month all months are apologetic some paneeri grew into voluptuous dahlias others decided to die alone lazily the bougainvillea leaned over a neem hiding its sorrows in its thick bosom
crevices in my moon huddle to cradle my losses it's gashes match mine you say you were here footsteps of an ancient presence were we together? will we meet? I'll set a dastarkhuaan for three you me and the moon but when the moon recedes i'm afraid you won't come and when the moon is full you will be busy
we make plans and never meet maybe we meet when the plans die with my moon's cycle tainted by time timing to dream a blind woman dreaming around the moon cycle fourteen days perfectly dying at dusk resurrecting at dawn inhaling cinnamon-you exhaling moon slivers vortex masses of memories splashing across galaxies those meteors they are them when you look up know that just that
