pen-pencil- cutting down, building up
measures in the case of live streaming —
the ceiling comes way too low and
brushes against my head, a speck
of dust on my stooped shoulders,
a particular movement of the tongue
held against the unvarnished lips,
as the thought takes
the form and shape
and size and surety
of words —
piercing sounds within the skull,
talking to myself,
my low desk lower in its intimacy,
my balcony door uncertain of its certainty,
the floor and cushion bearing the weight
of my spaced legs, thighs afloat in
their own ceremony of discomfort —
the click-clacking lights pander to
my need for a gas-light expression,
a silent explosion, a runaway poem,
or the jostling of sounds and storms on
a new page of an old notebook (received
for there are other things to be given)
as hand-woven, fingerpainted pictures
emerge, inch by inch/pixel by pixel,
and a poem becomes its own poetry
in 300 seconds, 35 minutes, 3.5 hours,
3 days and a matter of a sacrifice
of all that it creates — a side-effect
of death for things that take birth
in any case.
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© Anmol Arora 2018
Image source (by Diane Liberty)
For With Real Toads’ Don’t Touch My Meez. Also linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU.
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HA's Place 