High Street

By Abhradeep Bhattacharjee

There was a stilted step,

Cradled by high and old wind—

There was a girl

And there she wasn’t.

In the strong and cold wind—

There was built

A clenched fist

In offering to the Earth—

Canvas for a tapestry of cracks

And a rainforest

Of Stygian birth.

The girl, you see—

She was never born,

And the forest grew old alone;

And the rest all came slowly apart

To serve Time’s yearning for stone.

By Abhradeep Bhattacharjee