For someone
who touches with hands gentle, you
brush in
soft touches that reverse the flow
and paint symphonies in colours.
Walls of music and walls of creation,
rock me to sleep, o’sound-
Sweeping humans tried to jump the gap; but realized
rain still pours even if immortals skip over puddles and
walk in rubber boots;
so someone like you had to take
a million in your palm and talk some sense,
shed something to them.
Like in the fertile canvass of gentle palms, so many
of your walls are painted; so many rocked to sleep
by your sound, o’ thesound it is
and o’thesound that echoes-

For someone who counts stars
nestled in the sky, pooled together like twicks of flight,
you reunite yourself when forced apart.

In families of burning gas, you find comfort and
learn to count colour, painting the universe by numbers.