BY JHANI RANDHAWA
The colossal passes beyond a –
who can see it, who sees anymore
on this earthly atom.
on the same one hundreds
of tides ago or on a separate earth yesterday.
An amputee whose body begins.
And as time does, in spasms,
as love does in
the infinite zones:
a cloud scrapes its mass against
the empty lot, banking prewar designs – so impossible,
so non-designs – enamored
into dumbness. Any war, it doesn’t matter.
It means I do not exist sitting here, in the surf,
my name, witnessing.
A cloud rolls over and tows
the horror mast of my histories,
and my solubility, looking out,
draws with it the earth.
The receptacle, an architecture now in its probability.
Perhaps it was a radio studio or a mosque,
a puzzle. It may yet be there, performing
riverbed for the tenement stones
calling it west
Jhani Randhawa left Los Angeles recently. A former director of the Sarah Lawrence College Poetry Festival, she traveled to India to explore the debilitated Natural feminine; she failed. She now lives in New York, exploring performance and cosmology.