(The depth is a trojan)

Throat, the epicotyl

As we sprout, the moistness of clay wraps all things shaped as fingers

Suction. An act of drawing in. The treachery of origin — mouth of a moment.

Parikrama. Thought caught in the bones. Cobbles sinking in amniotic fluid. Is and isn’t…

(The water feigns escape)

Bottle green, a tribune

As we wash, tree-tops are slipping into holes

Reversal. An act of flipping. The sophistry of folds — pivots of squeaky doors

Taabeer. Snag in a dream. Floating segments of hues. Is and isn’t another layer of skim. Is and isn’t in…

(The philosophy is a desert)

The traffic, a melee

As we think to absolve, the construction workers tap all the nails in order

Cancellation. An act of taking. The ruse of ownership — shutting widows

Antasten. Trickery of the touch. Sampling air through air. Is and isn’t in conclusion. Is…

(The fog is war)

Stone, a mothership

As we speak, the rain is anti-aliasing all that must have stayed jagged

Erasure. The act of pulling. The deception of nature – rolling curtains

Fernweh. Illusion of a sentence. Is and isn’t in disobedience. Is and isn’t in puncture. Is and isn’t…

The wind rushes onto piles and piles of cement. Her magnet jaw attracts all the flakes of thunder.

Yellow edges of a night roll outwards. A gelatine infused day finds too many suspended theories in its body. All the ships become sugar and the rivers become scraped dinner tables. A…

22/04/2021

The gypsy stone doesn’t seem to find its strings. A ruptured alphabet seeks two tongues and five pairs of teeth. They march (remember their sand-beaten hips) balanced on their torched marble feet. A sheet of purples and blue swim faster than its fishes. The stone pounces on letters arranging…