Spectrum of C
Spring and autumn,
forty and hormones;
how does the sky
carry its salt and pepper?
This sky is a spotless mirror
in water where the poet brings
his box of pastels,
they soak my blues.
Like pimples, born supple,
smeared with sandalwood paste and
washed with aloe vera, tulsi, neem,
what does one do with
Cupboards, beds, baskets, trays.
They talk about Burma teak.
He works with particle boards.
Five years, ten years, fifteen, twenty…?
Water – proof?
Termite – free?
Is there one today
when promises return in a coffin?
Q: What if everything crumbles into a handful?
A: We would turn our palms into constellations.
Have you counted syllables of stillness?
Have you sought brevity of the quiet?
Or is the distance between us scripted in infinity?