tall tall shoes make you closer to reach.
the ধসে পড়া city block between your sideburns, toll tickets on ভাঙা jaws, and the crisp of your stubble is closer.
pink shirt sinking into your meditarrean myth skin is even closer.
the letter you will send when my skull rests on your kneecap will try to leave us, then the closest, ball point bruises to draft an old new set of relations that must have a bibliography to consummate.
the letter would not be mistaken. we needed references, such as when the goli was running from blank catridges distributed out like pre-election mithai, chasing it into tongs, into messes, into raids, into cases filed at ‘ungodly’ hours, into you, in bandage catalogue, summer dreaming for the last time, diagonal, across your face, clutching an anti-cutter; such as when the মিছিল was passing kalabagan bus stand, and you should have been in an emergency room but you were propping up against a rickshaw, then his arms, and then mine as blood spatter stained, curved, sonambulated into a wrecking ball.
Art: Letter: Evergreen Background, Maturam Chowdhury


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