Dust settles on the line of closure,
a perfect loop knows when to tie its ends.
In the middle of the night two queries –
one that dances in the breath exhaled,
another that is interned in the fire.
The answer slumbers in the dusty book,
at the edges thumbed by fingers now frozen;
voice crumbles as rusty iron in my mouth,
ashen in colour with the taste of love
that I hold in my tongue, and refuse to swallow.
The smoke reaches in vain for the branches,
like a dying serpent, prone in supplication.
Thread looks as if snapped, but like a spring
under sandy bed flows, likewise you
throb in silence, in the pauses between lives.
When does a poem become a prayer,
life a river that stretches in the faults of time?
Do you trace intersection of lives with a twig,
sit at the fork of the road arching in ascension
even as you pin a finger on my coil of grief ?