[Sourav]

Only in me did this man’s soul
in a rotative windmill likeness sleep.
Into my gale’s leeway side
he stood aeolian
- deflectionless grip.

I even eviscerated his senses
driven mad by this roundabout drift
- he weatherproofed as pipe organ
only to murmur back into me
a thousandfold breathing
of my own uncartographed yet
self-trespass shrift.
Wherever I turned to
off me he refused to flee.
The ultimate contraction
was to have expelled him outwards
along with his obscure whisper
of amniotic words.

*

Madam, this won’t be a new-born soul.
It’s you that verso excrescence.
Let yourself inscribe.