The caustic rope

The tapestry which feeds the
Caustic rope binds me, you to

A river – Let us swim this dark
Morning to feel the pinch of

Wet & the itch of salt against
The verbose redundancy of tide.

the rekindled beat

the rekindled beat, the hearing
heart that sends no echo of

sun, the brazen day mulling rain
as it deepens the uncharted, the

un/up/rooted

we call, we sing, we cry, we do-
the act is solemn silent stammer

the games not played

I. May 5, 2002
I have come out to play in
The sandbox of

Heaven, in the time it takes
To count the beads

Of wracked time, I will test
The shores of a

Beaten throng, a million
Smiles, smoldering.

II. January 12, 2016

the demon storehouse of untapped
   soil, the

chances not supplied with oxygen,
   the games

not played, the full thrust of 
   action not

known to muscle or throat or to
   fresh ink

For my nephew, Hasan (May 5, 2002 – January 12, 2016)

the passion of trees

the steadfast passion of trees
for the sun,

the rootedness to soil and the
plan to stand

its ground till either the earth
moves or it’s

time to move on.

inch of pain

Crying out the gory ink, inch
Of pain, of

Wrack, this solitary act of
Solidarity

With the gum of the titillating
Shack of

Love, its accoutrements daily
Remembered

Forgotten.