a wasp licks the wickers

by on July 14, 2017 :: 0 comments

I name them all
I name all the
that I burn in
I name them alpha beta or count
them with numbers
Call them the
empty sachets
of laments
a pen carried by a poet
in dim lit hours
as he walks through
the paddy’s form
from where he
starts to talk
and writes of
things as such
through the
greying hair length of a night
Toothing the mouth
of a clay hut near
draining end of
the paddy
draped within the
wandering light
of a flickering lamp
a wasp
licks the wickers
of the lamps flame
a fire

– Allan Harold Rex

editors note:

Close enough to lick but not light. – mh clay

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