Wooden oars whisper to ears curtained by loose vines of hair,
Threading together hushed secrets of the clouds
That weave together their snow-white yarn between sketched notes clutching onto the rhythm of the oars;
My arm slumbers over the ledge of our boat,
It's sheath chiselled by pillowmarks
That spread to my cheek
Daubed with ink
In a corner somewhere,
A lonely serpent sighs
Lost in serene lullabies
That waft through the praying tall grass
As with our fingertips, we etch state lines
Through waves that prick us
As frosted pines
Blooming from the shredded earth
As rivers and roads do;
While rose petals rest underneath
The dewy moss-hewn sole of my feet,
Our arms reach up flying sunlit kites
backboned
by translucent sheets of constellations;
Kites
Tied to ropes of jute
That we hold in-between our languorous fingers
And forget the sand draining from their palms,
So numb are they;
Tracing circles with grains of salt from the moon back to the same intertwining vines of hair;
It is rather strange how all of its phases appear as waves
Cradling themselves on the hammock of the sea;
There lay our toes sunk in sand, Clutching the shores the same as the waves; The water turns to foam as it approaches us, Almost too afraid to blanket our feet; And as our pupils begin to reflect the foggy sunset, The kites are caught on a ropeway, And we start to fall asleep in their shadow Cradling ourselves against their contiguity;