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by Kushal Poddar






On my wrist nothingness flies in
and clutches the roundness with
its tired hunger
(Whose skull is moon tonight?)

or its claws or whatever.

The street runs to one apothecary;
two nevermen carry
a conversation whose text is touched by quietus.
(Knife of a cloud dissects the sky.)

I step inside the odor of the antibiotic and sin.
To fix your waning aura I must become an assassin.



a line, (a short blue one)




On the night-sky-breasts
your attic’s head
remains alight to learn how to be fed
on the twilight’s lactation and survive.

Here exists no noise except
the exceptions accepted –
trees, honking in the lane, crickets.

And you forge a cave with your right hand
on your left palm where your resurrect
an insect becoming winter.



a line, (a blue one)


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