bliss station ~ poetry

& the cycle chain slips

/ the fishermen go to farm, hand sickles slung across the back,
gandasas hooked on lungi-folds, on-head baskets kept on
with broken twill weave wraps, the crops

all mirrors, caudal fins rooted,
gills un-gasping,
the 75 iridescent scales
sheet music of boat-songs,
fading as the oar-printed hands swing
& the baskets get heavier /

/ mad, the jungle of legs,
waxed hairy bruised muddy
thighful, gaunt, rainbow,
a cadaverous spill of bicycle dreams
to any eye but there is none

& the legs cycle in the nirvanic breeze,
propelling the jungle forward /

/ some pale eggy thing on the mountain top
is sun, & when you see a hatchling drooling
by the dewy grass : say good morning /

~Ajay
22/7/19