Ninety-One

,oddities, [mis]understandings


i see, i say.
what do you see, he asks.

i don't see, i know.
what do you know?

yes, i feel the sadness
in the wood of the table, the wood is the table,
the table is not defined by her wood, the table
just is,
i feel her sadness, yes,
people throw junk papers on her in the hopes of
remembering, or rather, to be salvaged from the sins of
throwing papers away-

and what about plastic life as a straw cover?
discarded in lustful eagerness,
the straw is all we want!-
and the straw is not what we want, the drink is what we want,
slurping lasciviously, lucious Diet soft drinks
slushing smoothly
down esophagus,
or perhaps trachea, producing
incontrollable, pitiful, tear-inducing
choking fits.

i see, i say.
i...see, he attempts

no, no, it's the little patch of trying, frying grass that cries in the night for a smidgen of rain, an outburst of downpour,
dying of thirst, wailing a simple wish to be green.
root out desire!
the sun, haughtily laughs down on the blade, harder harder
sunlight pierces, bountiful death, makes the blade feel
smaller than ever, until
withering,
the grass and the wood and the plastic become one
somewhere underneath,
dying to the tune of the laughing
nourishing
eroding
sun


{Neha Bawa's 026-element}