spacetraveller

i’d like to talk origins—the plastic pearling
                        at the shore. The shore, a paperwork filled door
to a home i once used to reach you. The home,
                        a tree still sown. The trees furrowing smoke,
a wreck nature is painting to grow hue, to shed across what
                        we’re calling a mess and waking the next
window to make all over again. The window
                        from where i cannot follow the two women, the waves
of their saris departing the frame, or where i level the traffic of worry
                        i’ve shaped my roof with and the chair
i’m sitting in. Sure, there’s always a kirana store nearby
                        and those who run them, they must know
what we do not—how batteries and eggs
                        or milk and pens make worthy
clear shapes beside each other. You just put them
                        like that, you know. i’d like to know your aisles.