seaboyman ~ poetry

The windy axes come down

Filled with jungle whistles- the tree lays knots around-

before- I used to ask her- what is in my clenched fist- her

cleistogamous reply- never tell me- answer questions with

questions- in rising shoot and falling leaf- prayer for a new current-

not necessarily calm- flood wash away all but root- plough the earth-

break the crust open to see hooveprints in inertial lethargy- wheels

buried by weight of glory- directionless charioteers in contours finding

memory- that waters day into night-

Noon and distance- one has burned one- the other the other-

April twilight turns into the fog of looking up- new grass

Sliding on fair bodies without shiver.

~Ajay
28/3/19