Mitya

This world does not exist
Likewise, it cannot be dismissed as non-existent

– Extracted from Dakshinamurti Stotram

I cannot tell anymore if the walls are blue
Or the petals of a rose. Patterns on the grill
Sharpen at noon when the milkman rattles
The gate. The smell of coffee, the dark
Decoction drowns the whirl of cream
Before the vapor engulfs the face, smudges
The kohl into a raincloud. The icy fingers
Rip the coat, notwithstanding buttons of bones.
Opposed to my silent bearing, the walls
Wheeze squalls of exhalations, the tiled roof
Breathes the storm brewing over the bay.
These are ways maps are drawn, routes
The city bus takes in the grooves of the brain
Filled with buckets of tar: everything real
Duplicates by dubious recurrence— déjà vu.