“The leaves are moving — like tongues, like time, like tradition, / like things rise inside an oven, soft and curious. / The leaves are moving — they’re like smoke, / always waiting for the wind to push them,” from “Asvattha,” by Sumana Roy

“Beyond / this tedious Monday calm, an algorithm // without hunger / without teeth, something thrums / like a splinter of unease beneath the soles // of my feet,” from “Rhesus macaque,” by Nitoo Das

“Every time we lay claim to something, we fall into the yarns of loss. Don’t let the pretense of ownership run away with you,” from a poem by Marie Lundquist (trans. Miriam Åkervall)