My fortunes of a fugleman aren’t mine. I
follow you with ferocity accredited to canines.
You crawl lines of sand on my being. Is it
mixed with stickum?
I move from pole to pole. Internal antiphonies
urge me fine-tune myself. This township of
trees is another pneuma. At the witching hour
sometimes I hear a howl.
When a famulus vaunts my strengths
it seems he is perusing segments
from an unwritten omnibus.
I welcome his supplications, accept them
as testimonies of a higher order.
But when shadows reign over the room
his intonations play in my mind’s spool
introducing chasms, my incompletenesses to me.
That way bantam editions are better.
They don’t activate an audit.
LINEAGE: BIRTHDAY TWINS
(for Oliver, grand-nephew)
Even though your genethliac trim is
different, date of birth ties us. A neonate,
eyes more closed than open, you inhale
my instincts. I feel the silk of your skin
and buss your name. Copula of cosmic
tie-ups link us, as contours rip our
contiguity. Some day you will fall heir
to slivers of me. Snag the better parts.
Leave laments and loss to this geezer.
© Sanjeev Sethi