Make Our Own Poem by Pinaki Dewan

I was dropped into a nigh-well,
stone on water
sound on darkness
perforations of light on the blackboard-sky.

The house struggled at everything:
climbing into the eyes
slithering down the nose
probing the lips for a kiss
examining the tongue for narcotics,
struggling with erection
struggling with penetration
struggling with digging deep into the mind.

I lived as if, like a God.

The garden was better still:
contrite flowers, browbeaten grass,
underyoked wind.

Fiddling away like a dune,
the whispers traversed the ear:
I was lost in time.

Fudge now. Run like you never knew shelter.
There is time.
There will be time.
For you to run away.

Mask-phimosis doom-prognosis.
Entr'acte between life and death.

Connive an abature now,
renege all convictions:
be Nature.

In the hefty rays of dawn,
in the terrible music of the road,
we shall Make Our Own.