There is no moon.

Picture by Vargab Dasgupta.

There is no moon;

every fortnight

the road plunges through the ligneous door

and goes ever on and on,

reversible,

away from the denser reality.

I follow his trail

forgetting my snacks and magazines

for he promises me answers

each time to a separate set of questions.

I run,

he ascends,

I fall behind,

he severs his words,

I trudge back,

waiting another lunar half cycle

to chase

the thin,

blurred line

between the deciphered

and the unfamiliar iteration.