Maha Bindu 1988
by S. H. Raza
It almost always starts
With one of Raza's large dots.
The magnified black sphere of my moist eye.
Still
but surely searching.
At the outset, it latches onto things closest.
The clutter on the bed
The somber painting hanging overhead
Perhaps that novel on the shelf
Replete with its winding nightmares
Or that Greek composer playing on loop
Piano, oboe, strings
Piano oboe strings
pianooboestrings
A melodic lump lodged in my throat.
It could also just be those things he said
Or didn't say
Or almost just did
Last night
Or many nights ago
By the window, right here
Or much further away.
Or that new note
in voices everywhere
Doled out in spurts
A nauseating amalgam of panic and pity.
I take a stroll each day along the elliptical orbits of my life
Looking for the sources of the cracks along the way
But this steady gliding and less than graceful sliding
Almost always slips me back into
That wretched black sphere
of my very own eye.
