Barthes says – “a language is a corpus of prescriptions and habits []”

In the inverted braille of depression, an induction of breaches.

A mnemonic whereyou can touch the friction between speaking and meaning.

A whole body in a repeated grovel between its own locus and frontier. 

On a bench staring at the audacity of new weed, I wonder about my body as a break in the texture of abandonment. That day is a rumor, all its language merely the dark blaze of June searing a field of grape hyacinths.

And now, your throat without its domestic contents, a minor arrangement – sutra, grammar, invasions.

Acedia, I read. Somatic tergiversation. God is eternal in our tedium.

If I must live, shouldn’t it be in the shoulder grove of some ungovernable tenderness?

This mind doesn’t promise anything apart from an atonal temperature.

Bones hold onto their own programmed motion even after the mercury breaks.
X’s jaws still moving after the jump from the 14^th floor balcony.

In grade 6 or 7, he explained to me that it was calledpotential energy –energy possessed by a body on account of its position being relative to other objects around it.

There should be a word for a sparrow’s last arc of flight before its body crashes in a fatal percussion against the damp glass. In urdu: qurbat, قربت.

There should be a word for when blue goes from powder to midnight. From sea to vein. From origin to eclipse.

How should we confirm the missingness of everything you haven’t ever been allowed to speak into an audible shape?

On certain days,this city is a procession for a burial, adervish of dust, nothing but the précis of traffic; a desire to withdraw from the promise of eyes.An afternoon parked under the pillars of an ongoing metro construction. Two men in the outline of retired scarecrows, a rusted tiffinbox in between. Some voice from my childhood screaming – If we were meant to eat meat, we would walk on four legs.Hunger understands us in a way we choose not to.

The terminal end of pipe, unattached, is called daylight in construction.

This street and its frozen wailing – a tiredness ripe with the dread of ortolan buntings, the first time I heard of that opaque cruelty.

To know this body as a bird blinded into a perpetual night. To eat for torture not nurture. 

At 7 am, I prepare for listening they will bring to me. Therapy, mapmaking, laundry.

The future is always in the passing. To assume preservation is naïve yet lucid.

In the meantime, the practice of wearing sneakers without laces, a distance from fish knives, an algorithm for indifference.