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 itโ€™s hard to tell whatโ€™s real from reflection

as a child looks through cellophane & imagines an escape,
time is a crossing of vanished lines in air

often itโ€™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.