Subhro Bandopadhyay

Dreams are really the disgustingly dirty backs of beasts

What implicates us is our greed for staged rehearsals or other forms of expression

This is how I found myself    restlessness

An agitated palebright cormorant  half-submerged

in the pool’s private April what I held in an instant

was a headless body   The shirt I wore to college flooded with fresh blood

What you think disgustingly dirty

        Is really the not-wanting-to-understand youthfulness of our generation

What you think is the din of a stone-drilling machine

     Is really the unmetaphorical evening of our not wanting to go home

As if we are unable to understand the reason for this intolerable agitation

As if someone appeared out of the blue

And gave our cities a tremendous shove

With us inside Swarms of boxed-in ants

Still sending chemical signals to each other

     Through our sharp and venomous feelers

They will heighten your curiosity

You will remember that a dream is really        

The chemical exchange of neural networks inside a locked box

Right here the roads unfasten before me

With the paleness of neurons

When summer noonlight sets sight aflame

All over the body that powdered glass we call sweat