It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
So go in peace, be free, be kind.
but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes
Hark! / Busy work of Hands
Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
I heard they are changing the dictionary.
When the streetlights flicker, think of every doe-eyed child that the city swallows
A walkway through the crystal-clear lies
Irrespective of the ambivalence that marks Metaphysical poetry of the 17th century, Selim marvels us with his choice of words and precision of utterance.
But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
