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— % & — % & — % & — % & — % &

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I like to think
of those bulbs
as lanterns
that people, as mislaid
as I was, am and will be,
hang onto the poles
to guide our loss
out of the tunnel.

// captioned

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Sleep has cut off its threads with me,
but oh wind, please catch my dreams first.


//captioned

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Tonight, I'll swallow the stars
from Van Gogh's window,
and spill their yellow light
across the canvas of my hope.


//captioned

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— % & — % & — % & — % & — % & — % &

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My pupils dilate,
spilling into
the Rann of Kutch,
unfolding within my eyes—

Porcelain.

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