Abstract

a falcon, a phoenix:the winter before lasti finally wrote a lettergrievously in hindi lettersno transliterationmy architecturelaid bare to poseidonmy feet, filthy with their stagegenderqueer in bad grammarmy lover, when you were allowed:my dear, you are bilingualas if a country could be so molded,molten, underneath my tonguethe curve after sines, the nerves aftercoherence. my wild thing is goneand i hope they never ask mebecause मैंने कल तीन घंटे के लिए रोयाas if a drought of beadscan be called thatdrenched in no redwe will make our homemy lover, my paayalपरसों मैं तुम्हारी कम्बल को चोर लूंगीi am still dreaming, stealing, youan other

Full Text
Published version (Free)

Talk to us

Join us for a 30 min session where you can share your feedback and ask us any queries you have

Schedule a call