I’m torn between two poems, two oceans,
five countries, half a dozen rivers, two
dozen houses, forks in desert roads, motions
in parliament. Between the forks of due
processes. Between me being me, and you
being you. Between emotional quotients.
From wingtip to wingtip, from limb to limb
I’m easy to tear, separate into
segments along my perforated rim;
steel’s superfluous, a flicker will do –
of fabric, winds, porcelain grin, an eye through
a fanlight, a word, a long drawn out whim.
Torn between two stanzas, just now, and thrust
into matryoshka dolls, nested disputes,
between assets and titles, diamonds and dust,
isms and schisms and their hydra-headed fruits
and it’s easy to throw me, blind on the routesof zigzag lightning between duty and trust.