The Mesh behind Image                                  

                                       is often mistaken for

a skeleton
which I view at times with misgivings
Meshes, nets etc. do house skeletons in them
of void boundaries
of shapes not taken, nor filled or rendered in
but an amassing compilation
like the Parisian catacomb

that seems to lay before my eyes
in flickering bodies of bumblebees
trapped in the maillage of translucent nights
dying as it seems but cremated I know
before any of us were born

the dissonance under palm
as I play out the thoughts on the keyboard
has known for long the mounds, rocks, pebbles
the verrucas a mile below Rio Liso’s
laminar flow

A motive in alterity perhaps
and ulterior
one can sense in the things at the bottom of things
like the image designed as a mask
over its planning, construction, placement and process

The recipe of Sondesh
the Bengali milkcake
does not just involve ingredients, mixing and careful kneading
but depending on the cottage cheese type
theory alters process, process ingredients,
data changes information, and it affects process
which is left with no other choice but to transform theory

Poetry, thus, is not wrapped in theory
but a continuous correction of the almanac

It’s not always hidden or behind but left over –
broken meanings at the bottom of the bowl
with remnants of rice crispies
and nuts.

An observation prolongs
the half-eaten grains are sutured in
and the thing appears like metaphor
like an image

as the nemesis of image
Shadow casting from behind, the dagger palpable
as time passes it animates
and the thing animates too

How many daylight savings must have been liquidated
for time and tolerance to be
passing on like this?

_