bliss station ~ poetry

shape of the words I know

the shape of words mouths make stripped of sound
on a windy day. I nod, oua oua, yes I know.

it's like grandpa on the terrace, pointing,
with a cane, at each mountain, naming it

& all the rivers that touch it, & all the years
they had a house on it by the river

they forgot to touch the name of.
oua oua, yes I know. even though I don't,

never knew, there isn't much curiosity either
but he waits for a yes I know before moving

to the next mountain.
the bubble of words under the waters of a silty stream,

anchovies rise to eat spit, clean wounds, banyans
growing down from a palm tree. the words

somewhere in there, do you know what the pink thing is
in that bottle there, drifting towards us. like words,

the pink thing, yes I know, the pink words, vague things
getting defined together.

I barely come here, a countdown of a few weeks
where I get to know I am growing -

aaaii, you've grown tall. aah, you've become thin.
you have a faint moustache, big man. you have a beard now.

you've become as thin as a broomstick.
you've become as thin as a bag of bones.

do you know who this is, what that is?
oua oua, I nod, yes I know, even though I don't.

~Ajay
29/12/2019