It’s such a small and delicate thing,
That only time to a soul can bring,
It breaks so easily,
And yet is kept so greedily,

The slightest mis-touch its form will fracture,
And not many its form truly capture,
It forms so subtly between us all,
And when it’s broken it comes to a paining fall,

Once it is broken and harmed,
We cannot what we have disarmed.
We cannot restitch it,
Rebuild it,
Or refix it,

Though we can hide it away,
And pretend it still in our hearts lay,
But though others won’t know,
We know the darker seeds its lack does sow.

To think this abstract thing means so much,
Something to our hearts we clutch,
Like a delicate gem,
Trust so fragile, so small and yet so obtuse,
Trust so vulnerable to untruths,

We need you trust,
In a world so empty,
Where love is mistaken for lust,
And money is temptly,

We need you trust,
So dear and rare,
We need you trust,
In this world of no care.

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.