Medha Singh

It all breathes at the start,
there, the abandoned cart.
Here, the careless ease
the solitary fatigue
...

(After Rimbaud)


Far off/ a gazelle slices the wind in half/ beating its speed/ breath upon breath/ this is the total picture of freedom's worth/ that a sleeping horse is dreaming of. The true dream/ recurs as a bath in the nearby river, occasionally coming up for air/ and what it is, to look upwards from underneath the glazed sheet of water/ into a world, where the sun isn't/ but a blot of luminous blue gathering in your eyes/ water coiling up, you, and your silver hair. Swim up with thrust/ your anatomy recast /into human, alas, as you near the brink/ and then yourself. Reach up, and out, your fingers grip /the alluvium.
...

Every void is an opening;
always so gentle when it

starts.
...

The Sun
is a great swelling
candle
up ahead.
...