On a Day in Chaitra

Unborn time
slips into undergarments,
caught in the net
of heavy sleep—
the poem lies bare,
its chest exposed.
From ancient ages past
it returns,
parched,
resting its head
upon a thirsty breast,
building a house of longing.
Advancing time—
at the grave’s edge,
wordless fury
searches for
the hook of a blouse.
Danger hovers here:
Chaitra birds
flutter in flocks,
between new leaves,
blind summer flies
scatter.
Crisis of existence—
a fragile safety zone,
wandering
between ice and fire.
Blow against blow,
we ignite ourselves,
burn to ash,
fall mute in smoke.
All things begin.
All things end.
Between them I sit,
watching—
death staring both ways.
Our season of crisis:
mouths strapped in latex,
humanity collapsing,
lost in the theater
of solitary pleasure.