Lost in the middle of nowhere with only the Hazratpur Krishi Bank for glasses.

Selim al Din Mukto Mancha,
three quarters of a praire ellipsed into an amphitheater.
You fall over backwards on the tightrope the muezzin strings up through the gunfire of dawn.

Somewhere by Kolatia bikes are breezing, unsequestetered from the forest lit a dim cherry by road studs. Your fingers carress my lips with releases of cold fog. This act smites me with unrepentent fury, unsung, as it is, boorish, as it is, suspended as it is above the Buriganga, taking in it’s guts, and I am drawn to the mad ensembles cacusing like frostbites at my cupid bow.


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