River Streams

by Shome Dasgupta


In which: the way we go,

we go until our eyes open

for the last time, until

we hold hands for the last time,

until the sun no longer exists,


The way the rain is slanted, angry,

sounds–rippled muds, eroded:


carved in a way,


Meaningless when meaning

no longer sought, wanted

meant to be trinkets, dashing,

flickered, a glow:

kept in splashed moments,

movements snapped: palms of memories,

when leaves–mystical castles,

fallen branches–wands of glory,


Remember the rust,

remember the grass,

remember the paved ways of the world

morphs into river streams, gleam,

under a moon-lit wild,


Cries of the night–

haven’t the hollowed mouths,


When does it all end?


Half is only whole

when the whole:




Where are eyes?


Dull dull dull,

a sky looks from below

where shallow ditches

yelp: to be deep,


Deeper, an entwining green

against brick-walled bodies–

long lost times when eyes

throw swirls, show:

withdrawn from all the rest,

we once played with clay,


We once felt to be worse.



Shome Dasgupta is the author of i am here And You Are Gone (Winner Of The 2010 OW Press Fiction Chapbook Contest), The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India, 2013), Anklet And Other Stories (Golden Antelope Press, 2017), Pretend I Am Someone You Like (University of West Alabama’s Livingston Press, 2018), and Mute (Tolsun Books, 2018). He lives in Lafayette, LA, and he can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.




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