the belly gargles boyhurt venom

before spitting up a reached-for lust—

dithery the grass of it, spidery the past.

the breeze on the stoic's face empassionates.

the mynah staining the leafless tree with its presence

reminds him of home. his excuses are

as tall as that palm tree, his palms as small

as its wants. this is a new model clothe-hanger—

you can bring the clothes down one by one.

the stoic thinks he can do the same with bodies—

stretch them in a night of want, stretcher them

during his routine disasters, then stack them

in his memory, one by one by one.

the etna of the loins will always forge faster

than the lethe of the eyes can cool— at least

as long as your body believes you're young.

the leaves leap and leave. the mynah will too

no matter how full of songs it is.

~ ajay

24/5/2022