bliss station ~ poetry

heavy tamarind

a morning dream, at night, like
the countenance of infancy is so distant -
so second person.

this dusk death, a sallow spine of a
so-so book reddening by the reader
cut at the edges of paper.

the book, in a language comprehended only
when you flip the pages, fan them
& smell -

it was blushing, that sanguine disease,
at the beauty of human mind
& the mind of human beauty.

~Ajay
20/7/19