Supritha Rajan

Humdrum—
the common tune is always
sung, strung

like beads of ambered
time spawning
sweet resin on the tongue—

rum—
each distilled and oaken hour
of pleasure's tumult

and its flower,
the tokens here
of mere leisure

fared elsewhere
as violence, silence—
the white foam

that bearded islands
and laced albums writ bare
with history's benevolence.

What is the face
coined by kindness,
the indifferent currency

that tenders happiness?
In this Elysium
where feet toddle

on mowed grasses
and white paper boats
float swan-like

across puddles,
nothing reminds
of calypso or calico

and the only emporium
that ever passes
is of slow-moving clouds

like turtles of the sky
I reply
as we lay on our backs

and hum.