Reality is an Erasure Poem

Walking home from the station dreaming For the first time seeing this tree I walked past Three hundred and twenty times before Only now noticing that its trunk physiognomy Evokes a stout man with a fat belly Forever altering my street’ story

Reality is an erasure poem— Sipping coffee, glimpsing at the chaos of liquid currents swirling Jupiter’s stormy surface in my palm, dissolving the illusion of a still morning devoid of motions.

We read the alpha and omega instilled Oblivious to the Cyrillic or the Arabic Pushing them to the margins Thinking we read the world Unknowingly making edits The cuts reflecting the stories Carved bone deep

Reality is an erasure— Blind to the blanked bits Reading from the same hymn sheet Yet we hear blues when other infer symphonies. Deaf to the cacophonies we replay preset melodies

What about erasing the erasures will there still be a story to comprehend? The compendium of all literatures Ever flowing knotted juxtapositions Senses overwhelmed back to where we started

Reality— Mine? A love poem Unequal in its parts One stanza of erased absence Joy threaded through An undercover epic Of fiery choruses under the mantle Of undulating lights wrapped in grey Of beginnings with no ends