The Bowstring That Passes Through the Centre

is the tendency of the reddish sunshine to become drenched some more let us hear what the milky-way seamed by pins says and it’s you how much can you be able to read the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula can you touch the season of making apples in the aquarium the empty bottles without any co-ordinate that shoulder with endless grief the hands of the wall-clocks in a sudden depression they’re also making crowd at the beauty parlour you have promised someday to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood in the circled face do you remember it you haven’t floated that turnip till now here the month of trumpet-flower covers everything with reedy grass with the festival of colours of the white horses the new leaves of bananas become associated the total dipavali rows along the evening-balcony taking it as daylight will any bird fly towards it then send a walkman for the bamboo plants you must go today in search of the source of the hand-woven lamp-post from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch it is a very large twelve-horned deer the mango-marrow demands more land demands more kingfisher the breath of the Ravenala touches the chicks of the black-pepper in every evening the flood that tears the button touches the bowstring that passes through the centre of magnolia