Vigilo

It's an earworm, probably. It's just you don't know what it is, exactly, that you're listening to. The worm burrows. You're slightly uncomfortable with this. It's one more thing to be self-conscious about. You're good at that. You want to object to its familiarity with the inside of your ear. You're in your body. You don't really want anyone with you. You tell yourself: listen to the worm, and it might go away. "Who are you listening to?" it asks you, and that's when you stop listening to yourself. You don't hate its voice. It's too soon for that. You like to give things time. You want to give your body time. Still, there's no love lo

At my spine is a harbour for a fear of eyes: the eyes that want to know me and your eyes. Yours want me wanting and known. I think of floods daily. They rarely close, your eyes. You asked if I was scared of being known, the dip of eyelashes on all-seeing eyes. I hid a small god in your goldfish bowl to make it true when I said yes, those eyes. Somewhere I am known and in love with you. It could be true. Can you imagine Mum's eyes? Warm, as she’d look at us over her chai and smile. Later you'll kiss me and tell me not to close my eyes. Perhaps I won't. Here, there is no puja that can pray away my fear, or with incense, hide all eye

ॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं । भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।। I. The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul, and your heart coughed. I entered the circle at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not know of you then. I have fractured myse

At my spine is a harbour for a fear of eyes: the eyes that want to know me and your eyes. Yours want me wanting and known. I think of floods daily. They rarely close, your eyes. You asked if I was scared of being known, the dip of eyelashes on all-seeing eyes. I hid a small god in your goldfish bowl to make it true when I said yes, those eyes. Somewhere I am known and in love with you. It could be true. Can you imagine Mum's eyes? Warm, as she’d look at us over her chai and smile. Later you'll kiss me and tell me not to close my eyes. Perhaps I won't. Here, there is no puja that can pray away my fear, or with incense, hide all eye

It's an earworm, probably. It's just you don't know what it is, exactly, that you're listening to. The worm burrows. You're slightly uncomfortable with this. It's one more thing to be self-conscious about. You're good at that. You want to object to its familiarity with the inside of your ear. You're in your body. You don't really want anyone with you. You tell yourself: listen to the worm, and it might go away. "Who are you listening to?" it asks you, and that's when you stop listening to yourself. You don't hate its voice. It's too soon for that. You like to give things time. You want to give your body time. Still, there's no love lo

the bards have bumblebees in their mouths, for language is babbling, a brook in a bowl, joy brimming; billowing, rippling, surging – and spilling; sashaying down, with a swaying sound (oh-so wistful, oh). language is burbling, an impish kiss of mouth from mouth; bewildering, baffling, bemusing – and tricking; tumbling round, to touch a fellow Fool and his nought (so wistful, oh), and disturbs a Poet, who slips into a dream of a vagabond – "where are you calling from?" he murmurs, in his sleep, and the newspaper flutters with a snore; then rests on his chin (just so, oh), and language sidles past him up to me, and places

I. you bound to be gone II. you shake wind over your kin southern dark little brittle III. in a world of scorching the travel-idle dust looks so restless IV. with laughter harbour-deep you carve out of northern wilderness the bone clocks