Striped Nothings

Floating on a river of fire sitting in a cooking vessel you were invoking the rain god. Your hollow words had holiness of unmeaning. The sky opens the third eye. Are you going to offer your tongue to a footwear of a proxy blood ? As a hymn to goddess of wealth, sugar is thrown out of window and yellow rice dances before a mirror. And here I bleed silently for the shooting star* who could not conceive. *A kind of primrose whose purple flowere have backward curving petals hanging down. The flowers move skyward on slender stems turning their face upward after fertilization. Satish Verma