Madly-in-Verse

Here the shadows of your language

dance on each page I read
a raucous hawker finds new means
to sell outside on the street
the ceiling fan’s mirrored at the edge
of broken glass, the newsfeed
still and frozen on the screens
winter’s coming to an end
a season draws to a dazzling point
but nothing else begins

 

your hands the way they were

before they got cross-thatched with disease
your parched-earth heels strike the floor
oblivious to all defeat
the terrazzo’s chipped, indistinct colours,
worn divider strips, stiffened debilities;
rusty, weak hinges on open doors;
winter’s crumbling to an end
a season ducks to a frazzled point
but nothing else begins

 

there’s talk on the ledges of buildings

that you and I can’t understand
there’s no harm though in keeping ears pinned
while I read the shadow-dance
urban pigeons beat their wings
your house is quieter than we planned
just hawker-calls threaded on the winds;
winter’s stumbling to an end
a season drains to a senseless point
but nothing else begins

 

the radio tunes that I’d heard once

are no longer turned up at dawn
maybe it’s broken, or there’s a difference
in the music that comes on
your lobes hang heavy, a little misshapen
your senses a little withdrawn
your love’s stilled to a jangling silence;
winter’s fumbling to an end
a season clots to a clenched, tight point
but nothing else begins

 

love and anguish both masked easy

and pasts dance crisp on pages
your magazines are fragile, paper thin,
their editorials strange and dated
but flipping the corners keeps hands busy
and empties all mindspaces
of love that is, and can’t be, sanguine;
winter’s rustling to an end
a season falls to a tattooed point
but nothing else begins



Shared for OLN @ dVerse








© 2013 Nilanjana Bose