This one goes out to Surbhi

[moel]

niether the heart cut by a sliver of glass
in a wasteland of thorns,
not the atrocious waters seen in the corners
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes, could hold you waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oak trees
toward your unbreakable thread of snow.....


that is why you are endless, gather me up as if you were
all solemnity, all nocturnal
like a zone
with the lines of time...

Advance in sweetness,
come to my side until the digital
leaves of the violins
have become silent, until the moss
takes root in the thunder, until from the throbbing
of hand and hand the roots come down