Statics cackle. An orchestra of insects
plays a leathery elytra music,
and the riverboat leaves the jetty
as the city becomes another kind of insect,
the one whose belly bags the soft fire in protest
against the darkness of the late springtime.
Leaving? Where to? I hold a paper ticket
to ticking oblivion. The insects dissect silence
and murmuring of the commuters alike, and then
there hum the machine, water, shadows.
The other Bank is nowhere to be seen.
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Kushal Poddar
photo by Dylan Nolte
