Mani Rao Drought
Fruit dump under the tree Wriggling gone from the grass no winds frisk Collecting dry rivers, seas. The sea was no slake, cracked continent’s crustaceous parts drifted up creek. Said salt of the earth – it tastes like mud, looks like chocolate. (Ought it be allowed?) Outgrown the fish juts Blood, thirsty stalks faint streets Air wavers at mouth Lips do not blossom even if they meet Speed with which air avages the plump
|