aisa bhi koi khuda kya — ke chalte kaam jaayenge rook?
— Poor Rich Boy, “Tootay Huay Admi”
I.
i have forty fasts neglected, marked
into my skin like tallies for when it is
time for condensation. now waiting.
now the singed scent of deposition. now
silence. now i am studying my ancestors,
my experiments. now let me assess.
II.
my Lord do not let this spring bloom.
do not let the vine climb any higher
or i will confuse its shadow for an
eclipse. i will puncture a leaf,
ceaseless searching for sclerosis.
my Lord why don’t You grieve?
III.
there is so much noise in
my asylum & now this temple
this shelter is obsolete a building
of stone with so many etchings the
walls are thinner than the parchment upon
which i will continue to write my futile letters
IV.
now watch. i am basking in the remains
of your retired machinery & every insult
is an inverted acknowledgement of Who
i believe exists sometimes but still, it is so easy
to dissolve it is so hard to be dissolved—ego
mangled, membranes still steadfast now—