dimensions of the island -
you by me.
the news anchor forgets her name
on the news - there is nothing to say
the weather forecast before a blank map - we'll see what happens.
it is no paradise
there is no fresh water
but we have no thirst either.
you think
the yellow flowers
were better red -
they become red.
I think the songbird
needs be a little louder -
it volumes up.
ut is no paradise at all
with all the strings
between your fingers -
the ocean brings
more sand to the coast
like the uterine wall
amylased on the tongue
simplified into sugars -
powerhouse of the cell
lubdub lubdub
in the shape of an inverted pear -
a ship comes
towards the island of you & me -
rudder & sail
& there is a dock.
let there be no dock -
tsunami-gather
the jetties away
but no one listens.
songbirds dim, flowers
return from red
become sun-worn
lobster shells on the beach -
pink then yellow -
the island becomes
the island of you
& the island of me.
the ship, cleaving through
a silent sea like a
buoyant bronze branch
draws borders -
straight lines laden
with the heaviest complications.
it takes longer to bridge the islands than to create
this world -
to the odyssey between our breaths -
go forth, seven words a day.
~Ajay
13/12/2019
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
