By SANJEEV SETHI
Don’t define me by one itch, there
are other appearances. It can be
contained, made to subside with
a willing source. Don’t let this spill
on other manifestos.
Worsted and word-smitten we’re
poets, if we don’t seek nuance
while negotiating the nitty-gritties
of existence, poetry and its practice
Listening to the raindrops lisp of
her longings, I ask her not to weep.
“ That’s me,” she pleads.
I place my palm outside the window:
my way of upraising.
Your blandishments worked or did
they? I, shrewd and sophic equipped
to identify the knavish, gave into your
glossology. This is it about words,
we allow some of them to soak us.
It seems I’ve been sowing arid
soil: fallow ideas firm up on
their own. In creative enterprise,
rigor behind the rendition is
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