There was a waffle grid of asparagus roasting under the sun’s dovetailing rays. The satellite dish on the central swivel tips the roasting beyond the brink of Rajasthan hills, and the chains pulled up the corners to gather the shrapnel, debris, and varicoloured dust like sprinkling curry. The deep pits under the bridge received a portion and a measure, spanning the flowers of elder broom.
Sharp things grew from within the darkness of a thicket’s limbs, teeth of snaking things heaped in the time, and in the archway of forgetful lordships in continuance; we made those count which we laid up for the crickets in the snow.
When we learned the free telling, the grid found us wanting heat, and knees bowed under the drum-head tightness of the air. Trying the thoughts that well up, in under the bridge, leads us to the frayed end of the bell-rope: we pull it, and it answers far above in the fractal spire.