today, the heat chronicles
the tale of years past,
cracking streets into scars
that seek and speak the tongue
of our collective ignorance.
my body is wet in the brittle wind,
malleable to the textures of carbon
and sawmill dust, as if in a charred
photograph (going monochrome).
how do i picture a paradise of
poetic plenitude, when i find
the earth splitting open (cracks/
whips/holes), on this sweat-laden,
blue-spotted, anticlimactic day?
© Anmol Arora
(Inter)National Poetry Month