Ald Hyp Sceei

The calves are up in the air,
breathing in the blues from their chest.
Mothballs stream into their nostrils
and bounce back into squares
bobbing on kanjeevaram sarees
seeping from the black and white
they were accustomed to drinking.

Their penumbras cast them aside,
make notes about their behaviour,
and gnaw them into an umbra
that took out its spine and wore skins
of the wall.

In the meantime, the hors’d ’ooves
plated themselves onto the Earth
for there had to be some glass
ever on heels
to domesticate the menagerie.

An umbrella—all of metal—
takes cover over a hen’s husband.
The husband’s plume
has wilted under that parasol,
which is not exactly attractive enough
to yolk an Easter egg.

Ald Hyp Sceei

We should crawl up to the ceiling
and touch the fingertips of ThePa Inter
and then, stroll through that conversation
between our necks and the four up there
probably till four in the morning
two months from now.