A hand taking a selfie
broadens my arm, weaves
a myth, albeit it is a breeze
in a bald grassland,
and certainly not chubbier
than the head that looks
so far and tiny.
In this light the face is
a graveyard of expression.
The hand almost misses
itself in the frame,
and then misses the cool railing
of the evening and
the whispering rooftop garden
that rises to its level
if I drop it down my side.
It writhes to grab the gossip
insects spread.
They always hush their chirping
when I near. The hand takes
a selfie because you want to see
that I am not on the roof,
not too close to the railings.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
.