I recognise myself in pages,
A prison, made of other people's pages:
A fig tree
A New York Street
An unburdening of self into the sea.
I've bound myself in reams
Paper, thin under folded crease, keeps the words in – just.
But a buttress of words soon buckles and thrusts
as a cobra – punch drunk – grasps the been*.
* been is another word for 'pungi', an Indian folk instrument made from a dried bottle gourd. The kind you might expect to see a snake charmer play to hypnotise a cobra.