They don't mean.
The clouds are
clouds (even
cirrocumulus, even
pink-tinged),
photographs are two dimensional,
a waxed-apple smile
just is, is just that.
There are no presentiments
of other things.
Is this how the bereaved
encounter
rain on a window,
black boxes,
eyes that shine?
Even the questions
don't seem worthy,
when they present themselves.
They’re just things,
sick things,
fizzing into convalescence.
Prithvi Varatharajan is a writer, literary audio producer, and commissioning editor at Cordite Poetry Review. His writing has appeared widely in Australian and overseas journals, and he has a book of poems and poetic prose, called Entries, forthcoming with Cordite Books in 2019. He holds a PhD from the University of Queensland on ABC RN’s Poetica.