Spitting Images

Unreciting a mantra, I will
go in unhearing mode,
for a drink of moon tea.

This is how the life
treats you, when you want
to leave the crowd.

And then stalking
starts. I will find the moon
always following me in sea of fins.

Like a caged bird
you were afraid―
of wheels and not wheelbarrows.

I will not stay not float.
The space must come to me
to expand, to grow the wings.

Rubbing my nails
on stones to sharpen them,
to etch your profile for the clay mould.