Slow Anxiety

By Kushal Poddar

I have this anxiety
over goldfish bowls
filled with potpourri
and only potpourri;
I fail to scale this feeling.

I feel nervous in your salon,
ask – “The petals afloat
must have some shores
other than being ended in rots.”

The sun, harsh because
tropical winter has chased
the cirrus away, stalks us
through the pane.
Although I fail to scale this feeling
I disrobe you the way
a frightened sloth leaves the fear itself.

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