That plain queerness angers me, chases me,
with it’s usual peripheries.
I, a beggar, refuse to own them,
for their sake,
their blurredness keeps wandering along,
for my sake.
Scattered faces look askance at me;
thinking I would collapse soon, like froth.
It has been a case of slow eclipse,
I am waiting for my queerness to unravel,
the reservoir of my eternal quietude is dried,
the aftermath of moments gone, grills at me.
My life is full of disjointedness,
from one that is dead is born the one that is
to die, soon.
The painter, we call God,
who has been painting for my
survival,
lives sagaciously on the divine lines
dazzled, at times, over the absurdities of
his painting.
I cannot peel the painter away in my
frozen togetherness with the painter.
I am consoled, I am consoled, consoled
by the queerness the painter has bequeathed me.
My consolation does drift away, slowly, shyly,
as the painter keeps painting,
within his enseamed divinity.