Sampurna Chattarji: Journeys, in Tangentia

Breathing together, in unison, the rise and fall of our breasts, is a kind of language, too.

Whatever we do, think, write, we will never achieve the grace of large-winged birds wheeling in the sky above us.


Strangers return us to ourselves.

Is water the river’s skin?


“I love the human voice”

“If I had to choose a favourite, I would choose…you.”


Perhaps the prettiest sights will go by in the dark. This fertile febrile dark.

Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row.


Venus races us again, refusing to be left behind.

Speed is my demon, too.


“Where are you now?”

“I don’t know.”


What scars do places bear?

Do snakes slough off memories with their skin?


And finally I see it, the moon.

The fog, gentling everything.


Electric poles vanish, oil refineries vanish, villages vanish, an orange canvas tent, two crows on a bulldozer, a yellow school bus, waiting at an unguarded level crossing, silent.

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