Blend

He sat at the desk across from his own reflection
Watching him where it hung above the curtain
And studied the hand there writing what he wrote
Something about the ocean in second summer
When he was a child, the sparkle, the mark of waves
Tossed up where the breakers thundered the rocks
The truth was the sentence they composed together
For no one else but the quiet of the house
The tide he dreamt and the one he could remember
Subject and verb and the sun touched swells they made
Of the past itself now blended with invention
His left hand moving the right hand in the mirror
And time a distance in the room between them
Spread out there like a childhood shore were waves
Broke on the sand and retreated into the huge sea.

- Nirmohi