bundi

the colours of death came to me one night. they had shapes like architecture, and spoke in the bright sullenness of the houses of bundi in those rare moments when nothing asserts itself, when the messy duvet of the hills lies soft after the frenzied religious lust that tosses on the bed of this land. doors were unlocked and i wandered through those corridors and rooms undisturbed. the mirrors were wells of unreflecting and my face was like the grammar of sleep. i encountered bodies, still and perfect, white moons around absent centres, and they seemed like eyes – unblinking, plucked, sightless, visionary. i say, i would be those eyes. i would be a body perfect, still. no one answers, and my words fall somewhere in the temple of abysses. the architectures of death are blue. blue, skygreen, and nectarine. they come to me in nights. i inhabit them like love.