think of me when i am away
raising fires to your altar casting
fat rams whole whose hooves
horns twist char crackle.
scatter me like imperatives
when running after poems your
fingers won’t dance for you.

employ emotion or method.

seek to find the shortest possible
route from my point a to b to see
realize i end where i start a full
stop to kiss to sift sniff a whiff i
want to home an intimacy with you
erase you off the heads of others 
lick colour and contour off cherish
sup you like fruit out of season the
last of a dying species my
notebooks reek ethanol wavy pages
heavy with a hunned stunned butterflies my
lenses laugh blind when they catch your light
ill never know the poems you wrote me unless
undid until you show. throw me caw, crow.
give.

chaos croons. leh—
happy in my dollhouse waiting for reason
reading into dust dancing in the light
slowly moving leaves

…

Post exile, eight years of resisting discipline, K Srilata’s lost acolyte emerges from the woods, hair twiggy, housing birds, bearing fruit. Six months ago, Gerleo Nimalan quit monthly money to return to art and harbour financial distress. Shoved by love’s loss, the writer has sat down to write, cue string quartet, thank you all. Blessed Virginia, may he keep the faith.