the lady that weaves gajras in her lap
looks up when the needle goes down
[into beads of white perspiration
queuing directionless certainty
waiting in her hands
to be in a braid hair-hiding till night/ perish on a painting before dawn]
while
gathering and ungathering
a rope
nature's leaf is gold
so he leaves them be on blue plastic
to be/come for a moment
and returns to find none stolen
none taken under the sun's security
and fellowship of open air
bangles in a garland around her neck
hangs a lace of sweet sound swaying to the train's whim,
of colours
and circles canvas her carotids open up where the knot
unties lets them out at stations
silencing silences
but keeps some for tomorrow's wrist
8/1/21
