Thoughts in the head air out lies by briefly
heaving out of the dark well. I grasp
the fumes from aubergine slumped on coal stove
ooze of deception on puckered skin
where I hollow out. The tissues shaped like death
coil in the finger held in a hooked fashion
as sand plugged all extremities. Eternity and mortality
speak the same language as you drop a rope into me
plumb the crust of earth to reach the star.
A storm of ashes in the ghat where rivers converge –
the Gomati who ends her journey and the Sarayu
from where I pick pebbles, immerse the last ball of rice.