| 19. photograph
One man leans. One stands, with a faint smile, a hand, palm-down upon the rails.
The balcony is narrow, two floors high. A lamp post climbs across the street. And the men are young, terribly shy, friends catching evening on their faces.
Unravel,
Holding this up
Between thumb and middle finger
To a lamp of upright flames,
The long lines of dark Krsna
Come woven upon their clothes,
Upon the far trees,
Upon the red bricked streets below.
"I'll just get the camera" she said, then she rushed inside. We stood there eyeing the distance: the new buildings of Connaught Place in the winter air.
We laughed, pushed hands deeper in pockets, shuffled in our places, made sounds, cries in the night hour.
And there was pleasure evermore waiting for that froward woman who took us in, laid us food, talked and heard our woes and slipped us money on our way to where the black-bird goes.
Over his face had come shadows
Of bat-lings
He had his words
His blocks and planes.
Like a child he treasured his wounds,
His broken nails, sweet bread and ice
And guarded over his secrets
Zealously.
And I said - what is it I had said? Something, and laughed looking down, and he nodded with an almost smile
And she came out flashed her camera light
And took us completely unawares. next: city |
