Abhradeep Bhattacharjee
Fall, wisp, hurt and slip;
On the edge
Of a receipt— the air
Is ripe for fattening
And gorging
On your tongue—
Crawl, lisp, across the minutiae
Of openings and renderings
Of words,
The will to anoint
Will bleed them out
Before nothing.
Teeth ash
And fingers wander
In the movie hall, and
Disappointments like this
Never fail
To terrify me.