We rise like wildflowers in the dimming light

Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Ghosts              hermit into

a body.           In our oneness we are

figs barrelling               down a slope

of the universe                   feed hungers of a hemisphere

a mollusc of song                   animal putting

morsel in the mouth of animal               star light

reflecting over nebulae               our bodies emboss

a lacquerwork coat                   gleaming in proximity.

We graze oceans               in reverberations of body

into body                   like animals navigate

a changing forest unscarred.              Ghosts of quiet

paddle                   diorama over a diurnal background

acclimate as pilgrims                   defy coulisses

flung                   into turquoise orbs       ocean       sky.

Ghosts solvent                to commingle mist fog

       in the placenta of earth        a uvular parabola

an uncommon faith        we build a home with

splintered wood        blossoms        our bodies.

I recount a story     I once dreamed as a child

[there was a river        with many stones thrown into it

we called it a river of stones        we touched

the rain        sew water into land        into a river]

without knowing               a form of illumination

the smell of oil lamps     thyme     red lobelia.

Sycamores with falling stars     over their heads

     leaves tremble     with an entropy of connectedness

bone placed into body     enfolding a symmetry

animal interwoven     into animal     transverse plasma.

Ghosts luminate         balusters with saved sunlight

     we kiss the pastures         in our body

shadows lattice     a compass-less orbit

     into the thick of geographical marrow

when you     bring small seasons in your palm

when I     sing by the precipice

let us move     into an orison of breaths     a continuum

of unfolding       fragments turning whole.

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