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.
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Strangers return us to ourselves.
Is water the river’s skin?
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“I love the human voice”
“If I had to choose a favourite, I would choose…you.”
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Perhaps the prettiest sights will go by in the dark. This fertile febrile dark.
Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row.
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Venus races us again, refusing to be left behind.
Speed is my demon, too.
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“Where are you now?”
“I don’t know.”
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What scars do places bear?
Do snakes slough off memories with their skin?
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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.