for Rema Purushothaman

Along primordial L- arms of staircase- backyard ponds
Reeking of mangrove verses, smell of old English soap, lingering

And those words, waxy spider fingers of end tails, that is,
Cling to pores, grits, cavities of ceremonial walls,
Leave shark fins, moth marks, ash burns.

Spools of written how-tos, cocooned neatly within
wafer numerics, steamed rhetorics, engraved charcoal depths

Ignite a trail of myths ensconced
That shall only endure, never to be quenched
As these are the paradigms

They talk about, when they talk about
Zephyr, nadir and such comfort abstracts.

Their houses watch and wait and simper
for half- sighs, whispers, nuggets 'cause
nemesis isn't one of calendulas’ metaphors.

Decibels ringing louder
Into the caverns of a recipient cranium.

It will not be acknowledged ever
Those aren’t airless syllables stringed together
As in a street mela, to be consumed and discretely squashed.

Even as they dissolve completely and
Disarmingly, as snowdrops, recesses, askance.

They remain as moist earth, waters, stalactites.
Molecules of rain, wind, sleet
drifting over morning lattes.