There is this pond at the back of my backyard,
filled with kerosene and knots of pale moonlight.
I drink summer drops from the systematic cold windpipes.
There is a blurb.
Short. Precise. Like a mother’s gentle touch.
A glistening path of nothingness. Absolute silence.
Here, my body sits and watches the dance of the gods.
Dance of gods up in the sky, monsoon in winters.
I rest, I rest like an eternity on the vertex of this pause.