Here I am, again
after John Yau
& the room is cold with its geometry of faces
a child looks through cellophane & imagines an escape
a place moves in time like a needlepoint on water
often it’s hard to tell what’s real from reflection
as a child looks through cellophane & imagines an escape,
time is a crossing of vanished lines in air
often it’s hard to tell reality from reflection
when the faces in the room speak a shadowy language
as time keeps crossing vanished lines in air
& you long for the touch of a different element
the faces in the room speak a shadowy language
like the shape of a key on the dust of the table
you long for the touch of, a different element
something that leaves a trace of itself
like the shape of a key on the dust of the table
or a ladder that casts rungs on the wall
something that left a trace of itself
faces you saw in a photographic negative
a ladder that cast rungs on the wall
an escape route marked by straight lines and shadows
faces you saw in a photographic negative
& the room was cold with its geometry of faces
an escape route marked by straight lines and shadows
moving in time like a needlepoint on water
Poulami Somanya Ganguly reads & writes in a ground-floor apartment in Amsterdam.