I feed from many roots

ظ
I feed from many roots – graze
From the fulfillment of terror    I

Sleep on the minds of most dream-
Wary taletellers    I have not

Sung for a long time    I feed
From the boot of heaven – praise

The palate of uneven snow    I
Weep for wearyeyed woven wonders

I have not sung for a long time &
This grief eats whatevers whatnots

خ
We cut through the
mesh
midstream mocking

the hammer
   that settles upon the mereness
   of being   wherein what dissolves is us

this part of us that sticks to the grain
this part of us that rests upon mereness

my collusion

as depth of evening penetrates my occult skin, the
chance of another
chamber of netherness collapses – my colluded skin
visits every
pore of the improbable in
tenuous measure, in
tender macabrity, soluble in teaspoons of erasure

sound begins as rain

i.
sound is a poor approximation
of land    its

need to navigate is predicated
on three taints

of luck    sound begins as rain
ends as november

ii.
the attendant deep ogles my
orchard
its way
and begins to smell again of forgetfulness

the resplendent deep etches
my green
its way
and begins to reek of otherness, othernesses

V ash mo(ve)ments

i. She asks: Why does the sky turn ashen in the evening?
I say: Because you have not watered the flowers.
Mahmoud Darwish

ii. The Azimuth

an answer
retold by
quarantined ash
wise, evangelical, behind
my ears - this
          vocation to stay
          this animal bard    ness
          hell
          azimuthal frozen split a
noun so many times it is infinite-

iv. What does old ash say
when it passes near the fire?
Pablo Neruda

iv. ye kaali havis
be-chayn in aahoN ki ye talab   be
shaaKh umanDta chehra tera   sub
log yuNhi dohraaeN ge   ye kaali
havis, ye dopehraiN   hum kyuN
umang se ghabraaeN   hum kyuN na
falak ko sharmaaeN   ye manzil
paththar ki shaaKh sahi   ye dukh
dard mandir masjid raakh sahi

v. jala hai jism jahaaN, dil bhi jal gaya hoga!
kuredte ho jo ab raakh, justujoo kya hai?
Ghalib

the salt distances

where will time stand
tall if not in the salt

distances that break new
words because the rift

is slow to mark its stem
because the drift of

time is weathered in half
beats because salt is

wise beyond the mountain’s
will because we you & I

are roundrobbin testimonies
to the crutch of hounded

fate –

vowels of faith

a No to perhaps, a Yes
to unknown

sin syllables – tumbled
vocals, have,

you know, fopped and it
does not seem

there are any vowels left.

the silken call to prayer
brings heed
need to solemnize each pencil of thought lest it graze itself hoarse