you have it in your bone, a penchant
for relevancy. we talk a, b, c and d.
you are a wall, we don’t go to e.
in the thick of a saturnine verse, there
you barge in. a sticky note of glaze.
balmy. words smell summerly.
it’s a battle to ward you off.
earlier in my verse, i made us to sit
at the edge of your cliff-house.
evening light quietens a-b-c-ds, deodars.
and then i let us topple over,
off-guard, down the wall.
grasses softening us back and forth,
back forth.
we are two cobblestones, scooped-out of
verse, rolling down to drink the river.
stop.
quell the yearn.
hold the wall
high against tender things.
i retreat.
three steps back in my verse,
one step towards the wall.
being sad.
being happy.
i am vulnerable in-between.
this is how I fall, back and forth,
back forth,
back
forth…
you are relevant to
my porous bones,
the ‘e’ things in my
unfettered verses, this side of
the wall.
(deodar : Himalayan cedar)
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
