at the temple they must be in a ring around burning camphor.
I don't go. only hear a ghost of the different gods.
old borders used to be along a river. I don't know
how to swim the difference that is not on our side.
who drew the line. not us of this time in this space.
it is 3:36 pm & I'm in a village on the tip of a tongue
shaped country not on any bus route. I drop a stone in a tub
to disturb its indigo water. the sun is carried west by the stream
in parts. I push similar trees into the one name I know.
all flying things are birds. I can see the difference
but have not learned to name it in the anonymous wild of a city
I've never been in & watching lightning strike a tree I've never seen.
~Ajay
28/12/2019
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
