Is it because I'm accustomed to chaos
that I observe her in a certain way?
Sometimes, she whips me awake
studded collar around my neck
and drags me from post to pillar.
Sometimes, I wake to the sound of a first kettle
with light autumn rain on the roof, replacing last night's
I inhale a tangerine's spray as it unwraps
ushering me back to a simpler life
where I simply held out my hand to receive.
Is it any different now?
I understand that my birth promised more
than my somersaults, kicking, hiccups and swimming
inside my mother
but being born just to search for another to invite me
into her darkness?
Why do we hurtle so towards our next black hole?
Are you telling me that the menu for the dearly departed
is more refined than this movieble feast called life?
How would it be if we heard each other's inner metronomes?
If we knew how many ticks and tocks remained in our clocks?
Wound before birth and lovingly inserted into our wounded chests.
Is every second a centimeter of canvas cum film
relentlessly tread-milling through this dreamy drama?
Sometimes, she is a large green core stability exercise ball.
I hop on, find balance and everything clicks into place
from my gut to eternity and back.
So, Poet, will you keep scraping the bottoms of burnt porridge pots?
Tick tock. Tick tock. Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Is my life a few thousand contractions
en route to another birth?
How does she convince the golden delicious
to shrivel up and dissolve
almost imploding, without it knowing
whether it will become a tree or hogs' fodder?
Why do her arms only move in one direction
while repeatedly wiping her face?
I want to embrace her because it's about time.
The 11 pm train announces itself.
A dog barks: one two three, followed by screeching plovers.
Where do they go at half past midnight?
I have to face her question:
time's about it?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem