Hands-are-Shelves ( vi )

I walk
clementine circles of the palm
The palm is a pond
Cold distilled blues, purple haze howling
The disrupted cornea of a mountain
Frog after frog after frog sits, paddling feet occur in fumes
an assembly of dreamy amphibians

I am again
with my head of coarse grains
Traveling seas, inhaling grafted petals of dead salt,
dead salt in lost flesh, dead salt in lost gold

I am again
Dwelling outside frigid ice lips
as the word on the way to a poem
What is my existence outside of memory?

I am again
deducted and multiplied
Picking my thoughts with a pair of tongs
Rings of fire entertaining my feet
I wrap them around my finger,
and a bouquet of darkness
births from slit flesh

And I am again
As I think
what is this dream
that leaves its flesh among the jars of agony
kneads listless limbs into the dough of vacuum
All with a promise
of light under death

Image and poem © Aakriti Kuntal