Details
by Samartha Vashishtha
Always the thin line on the sketch
O how I love them
the toothed gear wheels of your eyes
the wagging tail of a procession
the pale face of its slogans
the rickshaw puller cutting his angles on the street
such faith in the laws of physics
always has my face red.
On my evening strolls I meet
Brecht standing by the road.
His face cold, he is jotting notes
on the boy waving goodbye to his love.
So many things there are that they want
and will never be between them.
A sudden jerk of machine
and their lives will be parted forever.
There is thunder in the sky and I know
the vacant cloud is looking in awe at it.
That the French fries garnished in my plate
look so much like the fingers of a Somalian child.
That life and what we clench of it in our fists
is waiting in the unread obituaries in the mail.
In trusting, I count the folds of your lips.
In deceit, you fall into my eyes.
Details I know love telling me tales
Details I want hardly speak a word
Bouncing colons freeze between the time
it takes for a sword to do away a head.
Sturdy riders whip their horses in the dark
their neighs, they don't let me sleep.
Earthy serpents curl on the highway
sandlorn, stinging forever.