sometimes a word slumps and dies in my ear:
graveyard for those things un-rumbling the meaning of life.
sometimes a word grows and stands in my ear:
tiny hairs like the cluster below my navel.
i have learnt the powers of gifts―
round and thick flappers of give and receive.
for every dream there is a monument
trapped somewhere in a memory.
in one of my memories,
i held my father in a bar for too long
for those years he left me without a word.
i climb up this poem for the things i know
and the things i am yet to know
and the things i will never know.
say my face is an oval moon
and children read stories under its light.
sometimes a word slumps and grows and dies and stands at my ear.
i may have learnt the powers of gifts for eloquence―
but i have to drift away from this poem into another.