this evening’s hands are tied
to a clock ticking away
in perpetuity,
as there are countless soil kernels,
all residing in a (p)inch of land
for me,
there are countless evenings,
all lined up in the curve-length
between
the uni-
verse & (t)here.
perhaps the clock is broken.
perhaps i am writing to a time
that never occurred.
.
© Anmol Arora
Day 19
(Inter)National Poetry Month
HA's Place 