FORM AND FLOW
R. K. SINGH
The dance about light
humming mosquitoes
in the evening
grief can’t be trimmed
if stings are deep:
night lurks on concerns
of the day between
surpluses and scarcities
I scratch tissues
of impairing events
or bite the curly
language
to redeem hollow inside
dread of dying sun
and insects outside
conspire
against wind that burrs
the leaves
of years (or spiders’
net
in annually-cleaned
corners?)
shacked up, in a
shambles now
stamped with mosquitoes’
blood
my palms conceal
failures
I can never erase.
I can’t recover light
buried in a grave:
it’s difficult
to keep form and flow.