The Rains Are Almost Poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema

and the hot winds
from far coast
vividly cared
to stare
at most
grass and fallen
leaves by dose
a nail over
the toe so close
to the roots
of the dry rose

in the fields
to the east post
there is almost
nothing to nose
and surely the mouth
doesn't water for
that dry sun over the hands,
not a metaphor
of something
we all matter for
yet rarely utter so

my ankle
is angled
by the burden
of mystery,
my knuckle
is knuckled
and barren
with history
my angle
is angled
like wagon
with this string

how can i deny you me?
how can i really do?
how need i not knew?
i deny nothing
i really do
i knew

gone
is my weakness
born
was a sickness
grown
were seeds
from instance
sown
were bits
of life by distance
fail
were gone
by the means
nail
were seen and since
...towards,
than then