Rising is a gooseberry thing- boy named

Wingspan- the bitter sweetens as you keep

Chew- there is no hint of a blue cloud in

The white sky- the blinding light leaves no

Place for a candle of space void mind mass-

Can you see with your palms on your eyes-

The leak emerging on the wall- that you like

To stare at because it has no eyes- which makes

You shiver- boy named i- like herons in snow-

And breathe through tighter and tighter gaps-

It looks like a claw- sprouting from the corner-

With a million nails- at acute obtuse right straight

Angles- boy named she- but in retrospect- it is

Just a tree learning to dress- seldom buttoning

Right- on a land of bone meal- which on the maiden

Rain- beams black ash to veil the glare of pearl-

Boy named deluxe edition- everything chance is

Just a rain away- and every rain is just a wait afar-

And wait- like rise- is a gooseberry thing- dry slug

Are made in sometime May- the birds make nest

On June- winds drink monsoon mist and rustle

The Gooseberry until it falls in autumn- out of the

White abyss.

~Ajay

31/12/18