She watches the crane
lifting piles of wood,
moving them towards the other end
of the construction lot.
She likes to settle on the couch’s arm
when the sun hits midday
and the softened light warms her fur.
You
Are the ocean, set ablaze—
nature misunderstanding nature—
a rending of the universal soul.
which looks like posing
my fiddle leaf fig in the windowsill,
asking me after its watering schedule,
as if I know anything about them
but to throw them out when they die—
who often had time
in between mantras
to pipe opium or chew a paan
But in the process, constantly,
Of being made in front of me.
All her half-done work, displayed
In interactive art arrays.
I thought I could be an action
hero when I was a kid and was certain I was born to
scale mountains and leap from place
to place like a grasshopper who hates my hands