The Grey Glory of Solitude

Nothing

stirs

in this stillness.

so it's possible to forget motion.

Possible
to think
birds
grow on trees
and ledges

and window-hinges
are rusted
shut.

One can believe

that the puckered lips
frozen on the sill
never speak

that the doughy thighs
nailed to the chair
can't tremble,

or part.

And the snapshot hours pass
frozen in guttered frames:

All through the day I work.

Filed away for future reference
the days pile up.

Partho Chakrabarrty