Muse

    I was young when you came to me.

    Each thing rings its turn，

    you sang in my ear， a slip of a thing

    dressed like a convent girl

    white socks， shoes，

    dark blue pinafore， white blouse.

    A pencil box in hand： girl， book， tree

    those were the words you gave me.

    Girl was penne， hair drawn¹ back，

    gleaming on the scalp，

    the self in a mirror in a rosewood room

    the sky at monsoon² time， pearl slits³

    In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：

    gash⁴ of sense， raw covenant⁵

    clasped still in a gold bound book，

    pusthakam pages parted，

    ink rubbed with mist，

    a bird might have dreamt its shadow there

    spreading fire in a tree maram.

    You murmured the word， sliding it on your tongue，

    trying to get how a girl could turn

    into a molten thing and not burn.

    Centuries later worn out from travel

    I rest under a tree.

    You come to me

    a bird shedding gold feathers，

    each one a quill⁷ scraping my tympanum.

    You set a book to my ribs⁸.

    Night after night I unclasp it

    at the mirror's edge

    alphabets flicker⁹ and soar.

    Write in the light

    of all the languages

    you know the earth contains，

    you murmur⁶ in my ear.

    This is pure transport