I’m looking for a thing called grace
— Satya Dash
in the countless urns on your shelves
in the intricate mesh of your garden ribs
though I’m always eluded by the flying leaf
torn from the bough where a dove sits never noticing me.
Even outside the airplane window
clouds fleece the language of muscle
masses of water holding sway on a zillion cells
softly deciding the fate of bone.
On a staircase of stygian gloom
steps race ahead evoke the light metal of continuity,
hues of arms and hips.
How do I explain involution— hairs rising
like arduous flashbacks those first knots
staring at us eternally like nests of foreboding angels
tasked to watch over our ceaseless
scowling sprinkled with occasional grins.
I find questions answer questions best.
Promise of quest renders the period
a passable lull, each word spoken a necessary
speedbreaker for the irrationality of beauty.
Here hesitate shiver then dance
anthem into stem.
Touch the lotus on your head free from endings
a million roots in mud singing to the sun
manifesting in tunes of your blooming moan.
The result— a huddle of hills
conifer-ing mist squinting tornado licking lips
waiting to wreck us into one.
Here, we’re pallbearers of parading time
waiting for a turn of phrase like resting hounds
to unhook our satiny sails
to lay bare the stir of pocked constellations
our birth marks evolved into.