Short Story, as Borobudur

 

I’ve found a reason to live. Yellow sky

bright shores. The theory sleeps between religion’s

porcelain ghosts & inner Sastra,

& your seemingly

neurotic connection to the plot

sabotaged by the night’s iridescent fingers.

Hands of your characters’ hair are

a wisp in this solitude’s picaresque,

keeping shiny the stupas, beautiful as science

though the birth of the hero can never be

prehistoric Java, claiming the lost narrative

of memory. Brittle aura of bones

over the unsettling tear & this is

to complicate the scenes

from a horoscopic point of view.

I’ve found the signs in a jar: heart lotuses,

synecdoche. Flowers of the intricate past,

I’ve brought them up to the altar

with or without a conclusive epiphany,

a conflict so indistinct as a star

milked for its nirvana, for the riddling

tales it tells right from the beginning,

middle & end. The setting seems very patient.

So what is chronologically cotton-bound

may not be novel, physically circl