While scratching my beard, I vacantly
warmed my face in the sunlight
infiltrating through the dross window.
Spoken about car horns many times,
will resume many times more
although they don't share their language
with me on any level, preferring to cleave
the jangling nature of bylanes, almost as if
to summarize the gasp of coal.

I refix my eyes on the book,
find a beard strand on Partha Chatterjee's extract.
I, as it turns out, shed on the problem
of imagined communities.
My friend's laptop plucks data for her eyes
and its charging wire hangs precariously
like a ratty bridge that's newly renovated.