You are itching to be opened
aching for tendresse to begin her twirl.
You’ve chosen to cache in cauldron
of uncertainities. That may well
be the way. Or is it?
Waiting for wuther will not help.
It is fighting its own fog.
Baby steps to ferris wheel of options
will bring you to the roster of results.
Paradox of preaching:
is trapped in his own snarl.
Day opens her legs unlike my
love the previous night. Will
fog of failure seal the midmost?
In sublimation lies my savor.
Your murmurous paternoster
more fluent than the feints
stalking me. I sent myself
searching for certitudes, in
your thigh I met my moksha.
When his portfolio actualized
he surmised some of his private
demons could never be exorcized.
He sensed he couldn’t alter the
mess his offspring was in. He
weaned his heart to ache only for
the nation. Ache in a drawing room
sort of way. He moved his guests
with jingoistic spiels: politicos
would be happy to co-opt him.
God knows me. Let this one know or
claim not to. Certes, rhythm of breath
realizes my innermore sarment is lit.
I dread no dusk. Carrier of catatonia
I know not your motive. Draw your
drapery: energize your environment.
Your weir is a whoopsie wave. Early at
sea one learns grief of gudgeon, quickly
one gathers when to yell, Whoa Nellie.
SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: 3:AM Magazine, The Tower Journal, Peacock Journal, The Penmen Review, Red Fez, Indiana Voice Journal, The Penwood Review, Easy Street, Soul-Lit, Visual Verse, W.I.S.H. Press, Novelmasters, Poetry Pacific, Transnational Literature, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.