Words
fell away too soon like monsoon rain, my thoughts dropping like ink
blots
on paper. There is no basin to catch their flow.
The dynamics were as simple as shifting the weight of one’s butt in a chair.
It’s the air but it’s not about fair share. Is it economics?
Can a poem like a dog chase its own tail, as they say, about LPAs and ITCZ,
until it spins fast
enough to cause a whirlwind?
There is no structure left
visible, only fractures and remnants from dispersals.
Pieces have their own
randomness like words without season or reason.
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