your eyes are water-channels never be-
-fore-seen by the travails of my body,
your hands are grains on a dried river-bed
that haven’t felt what it is to be dreaded
with a precipitating desire for
such soft/silken/smooth meridians — i laugh
away your hesitant touch, as if di-
-vided by a barrier of evergreen trees.
the epicenter of this tremor lies
in your heaving chest, and your soft cries
are the lingua-franca of this land,
dense with ligatures of our limbs: misaligned —
we meet at the estuary of our dreams,
our faultlines eroded by limited means.
© Anmol Arora
A broken/battered sonnet for my prompt this week for dVerse Poetics (On Geography), where I have shared verses by Whitman, Bishop, and Ammons, to inspire the poets and prompted everyone to inculcate geographical themes in their writing. Do not forget to visit and participate. Also, I am linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.