for P.

Cosmic imbalance manifests as
riots over cities still warm
from hands on the doorknob
as if the disease it spread
were a gift, a light shock

misplaced exclamation point
pauses all over the sentence
as a remnant of treasure
had in the meaninglessness
of pleasure.

A reminder, that flame
whose warmth lingers
like first traces of
autumnal air

a gift in the dream

didn’t resemble the dog
per se but its opposite &
crying because a loved one
lost but you couldn’t
tell her that.

Couldn’t communicate the news
for the clutter would
muddle the meaning
said the horoscope to the day

constellations swirl (in the
sweetness of his spit
oceans roar in
the salt of his sweat we’re

breathless without his words

goes in to the closet to pray
& left
a bell ringing
for spiritual awakening
over a bevy of boys
in an elliptical path
their fingers
begin to look like yours.

Can only tell the story in reverse
to create a future without memory

he talks to me about the infrared

like a landscape you used to visit
as a child each time you draw
strengthening the past

His body’s movement, a rhythmic action
Can only be described using a handful of

Alive between two pauses

Things that determine the length of my stride

Imbalance from which evolve
elaborate wings. In an infinite
number of relics. He didn’t move,
he rippled. He said
even his muscles had muscles
that had been smoothed out
and only the seams of the gown were
exposed to the air—

Not seen as a continuous thing
But to resist the fall each time
Over which the body stays afloat

Hollow circles clothed a tangent
Where the entire edge moves freely
& in the corner of your eye
an open window
a foil
for invisible views
where young monks
set themselves on fire.


Biswamit Dwibedy lives in Bangalore, India and has a MFA in Writing from Bard College. His first book, Ozalid, was published in 2010 by 1913 Press.