Bricks • Mortar • Imagination • Words

The text Chattri


The man on my left has an impossible,

ancient, volume; he wrestles with both hands,

holds the pages back with soft rope.

I can smell the musk of the pages -

the ink like mehndi across the page.

On my right, the woman next

to me bristles as I come

to sit and have my moment with you.

I have waited

days to hold you

in my hands

and wonder at you.

Who are you?

I undo

your file, brown. Legal.

Bound with string.

It's a pleasure

to unwrap.

Marked, in thick, soft pencil,

Mss Eur F143/82;

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