Poem about a noon

the sniff of the orange crisp air-
figs and the afternoon morose sigh-
vehicles so slow and so is this noon-
the yawns of utterly poor roads
almost cracking through the vertebrae of the moon-
the cracks of the woman- her waist, her lips 
dripping a secular motion- secular yet frizzy
with least interest- what do I call this?
the aftermath or the beginning-
a sestina or a pristine death.

P.S-Writing almost after a decade. 2022 was one happening year for me. Here am I wishing you all a happy new year!

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