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 drawn back，

    gleaming on the scalp，

    the self in a mirror in a rosewood room

    the sky at monsoon time， pearl slits

    In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：

    gash of sense， raw covenant

    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 quill scraping my tympanum.

    You set a book to my ribs.

    Night after night I unclasp it

    at the mirror's edge

    alphabets flicker and soar.

    Write in the light

    of all the languages

    you know the earth contains，

    you murmur in my ear.

    This is pure transport