by Devanshi Khetarpal
I am looking for it now before the last rock rolls down
the alley. Snow has rained for the first time. It comes with
the turquoise arthropods, those blankets curled up in cold, black numbers
written by felt-tip pens.
Why must I be worried? The wave of heat and hope
is just like another tunnel stitched between my name.
The first time I spelled this city’s name, you seemed to be
underwater, but someplace in those clouds where sea-beds held
people like ropes and funnels, you were still asleep.
On paper, all of us resemble jargon. We are all so flexible,
effaceable. One small stretch of graphite can create a new country.
Where, then, should we leave for?
The old clerihews, the chinless prisons are gliding down the baskets
sitting like battered frogs between the battlements.
The answer is buzzing, creating incisions criss-crossing and tapping the air
while it performs on the stage, on the streets.
Where have you hidden it? Where is this place?
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/
