lastkind (iii)
how sour the buttermilk between my thighs
coriander-dashed with a doubt of if evers
bodies shawled from gazes that burn maps
a morning of fear hushed only by the possibility
of being awake during the darkest night
how many stars in a braid is enough to hide
skeletons of firewood at parallax with minds of arson?
how many stars must we shed to not gather more blue planets?
enough is a curve that never plateaus
& order is a necessary human mess
six voices in a braid drink chai & breathe
through the cigarette smoke about kafka
you raise a finger & punch a hole in the smokescreen
it stays there even as everything else passes
like a polestar in a sky being swept away like
a patch of a past-piss-stain on a thick blanket
i stare at the polestar it reeks of piss
this is home i don't want anything from it
~ ajay
10/4/2021
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