shells on mountain-tops.
the battery of a shawarma truck.
we're almost there in a rickshaw.
the triangles our shoes
make with the wall
scalene hollow
how almost-there we are.
the stars have no connection.
no part of the body a story.
crustaceans walking to a sea
that somewhen was.
the problem with our triangle
is that anyone can walk away
& I still cannot imagine tomorrow
or the metaphor the blue light is
in the back of the rickshaw.
what taut shape can two dots make.
no star calls the other second cousin yet.
the story of the thumb cannot explain
the scar far from it.
but there should be a tomorrow.
there must be one.
~Ajay
13/10/2019
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
