I don't have a name for who they are
on the day I saw them / their tents patched
the earthen skirt held to the sky by a
highway belt / tresses wiped their wind
shield faces / mirrors pimpled their pastel
clothes / songs rolled into their grass whistles
a few donkeys / some cattle / but in a
night they peeled away like a locus of moths
in the dark towards the next light / as if
believing is enough belonging // the next
days I look the other way until I look back
the day after / only then I long the passed
evening / want to roost on its spacetime
coordinates / lie down mad with sun-pink
enthroned on gutter-grass / unveiled in chai
smoke / asking the sky to come coffin-fire me
as the sun drops into jukebox valley to cue
the jazz of birds too gone to return the name
~ Ajay
20/6/2020
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
