among scattered signs of breaking, colored by a low sun -
a vase stands tall, complete, unbroken.
you think if it did not fight the cyclone
that destroyed everything else, if it did not
capture the djinn of the storm, if it is not
the cyclone vase.
a hero's welcome on the new kitchen shelf -
telling its story in porcelain plosives,
with pewter water sonorants, of grey-ware fricatives -
how the cyclone advanced, distribution of the winds,
the labyrinth of its swirls. spoons, new plates, & bent forks
listen, glistening. even though all it did was hide,
hide emptily from the cyclone, but no one saw
& no one wants to know.
like a variable it leans against its museum
of domestic glass, broken & unbroken
at the same time, wave & particle
at the door of another tropical disturbance.
~Ajay
30/12/2020
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
