There is dust gathering in my bones
from the proximity I have held you;
dust gathering from
chugging red buses and
stomps of elephant feet.
I am unwicked candle wax for you,
bent like a palm frond
sheltering both from torrential rains and
damp afternoon heat.
Bent out of shape for the sake of you,
I have melted for the scent of ripening fruit,
always on the strung-up hope of nourishing you.
In the space between the jackfruit seeds,
underfoot at the train tracks
from call of markets to
the shrill caw of a crow,
I have found you Ceylon
pooled at the valley of my chest,
keeping pace with the plunder of summer.