The translucent funeral-pyre swooned its
wound and syncopated a sickening droplet.
The stars were like veins
pacifying down from above.
And the moon spiraled her spontaneous
child over the dusty palms
of the thorned disease.
Simplified are the arsenals who
can see the stars and who liquefy
us in our cosmic fierceness.
Sleep knowing the lotuses will
give birth when you
awaken.
Only then will the prostrate sand writhe in
an unborn Rajasthani silk of Thank-yous.
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