the shower doesn't do it for me,
the water falls too fast
it seems to bypass my head to
reach the floor
like a spinal reflex it forms an arc
with a point above me to
arouse a response from something
below my feet.
so i use a mug instead
on sunday mornings
fill it till the brim,
acute it in decimals
and let liquid lines fall
slowly one by one
as they poem my scalp,
i can control it's pace till it reaches
my april ant-earth,
from here i am a passenger
of this trickle train,
awaiting axons are mere rails,
i am the window seat
with a broken neck/ i can't see but
sideways/ the stream goes
and i cellular depolarization
passive passing parceling
does it matter if the parcel isn't
but a membrane?
does it matter if i don't know where?
does it matter if it's nowhere?
and maybe it isn't a stream but
a red blather dripping wall/ mouth leaves when and where
it has an urge to spit
a paan empty and juiceless,
yesterday-water-lines are curves
when they meet my round,
write with a toddler's hand
sound like an old man's slow drag of
walking stick on a playground,
when they meet after cursive ends
my black lockdown lanes,
they go on without me,
go on like laughing kandils
in quarantine balconies do,
to wet a bathroom floor.
April 11 2021
