Gayathri
The center of everything
is the glimpse of light
you see
in a drop of dew
off a spruce needle
high up,
and eternity
is the time it takes the drop
to fall to the forest floor
The wink of an eye
is the timespan
between the final breath
of the last Neanderthal man
and your involuntary glance
at your wristwatch,
stepping aboard the subway train
The size of the Cosmos
disappears in your grandma's thimble
Creation is a helpless laughter
across the Mediterraneans
God is someone's last thought
The words I write
are refuges for wild thoughts
Wild thoughts
are the haunted sparks
of glaring galaxies;
the unconscious will
of the elements
spewing out of exploding novas
Lie flat
on the howling breath
of the whining veena of Echampati Gayathri,
the tabla of Chinna Prasad
driving the 18-wheeler of naked sentience
down the long last