bliss station ~ poetry

old jeans and blue

deserts are not plowed by shadows digging up bones, but all I have are hands.

on, up, the escalator into the mall, stuck,
between a kid sprinting the steps & an old woman
queasily rehearsing getting off, while tugging
her purdah in place.

a parade of names, price tags all windchimes,
so down the stairs, out, into the shadows
of a rather conspicuous concrete penis;
into twin brothers: house and shop, stacks of sarees
& my blue jeans on top.

packing up, the place that sinks with sun down,
the keeper and his daughter look out the window
at the moon capriciously waxing and waning
in a singular shroud of clouds,
or a wind of temporal illusions.

I slip out my jeans, retagged, sober
between the sarees; 1 AM fireworks burst
with a sigh of why on the neighbourhood

& I

walk to the big sewer, little river, holding out the jeans
somewhat like hope over it,
dissolving stones in gathering flood
drowning blades of grass in reducing receding

waters

the denim drinks up a snake of wetness, it slithers
on pockets, wriggles through secret holes towards
my hands, holding all, and fingers
like direct strings of mind, let go

and keep hold
and let go and keep hold.

~Ajay
12|7|19