By rivers with sonorous names
(curious habit, that comes
easy to those who) slept (with
violins) pebbles, and stones.
This stone, and its colour,
it must be of your home’s. On
the other side of the wall,
there is (definitely) a map.
Waving about your drunk finger
(pounded on the keyboard) summon
me to your street. This, with
frayed edges is probably your door.
That same, finger (or maybe
another) brushes past the map
to almost touch a City (with a
Capital C) where we once almost.
Almost took a photograph.
The stone then mocks the untaken
moment, and I walk by. Appreciative of
the colour of your door.
Posted on April 25th, 2006 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Photographs, Poetry and Fiction
