The shapes of things that are not here
Appear, disperse, and reappear:
A room, a face, a photograph,
A book, a letter or a laugh,
A turn of phrase or hand or mind,
Ungiven gifts you’ve left behind,
Each day recall themselves to me,
Altered into reality.
Things that are here and were before,
These too are altered at the core:
This pen, this bunch of keys, this chair,
The towel you used to dry your hair,
The song you sang whose words I knew
A year before I’d heard of you,
Even these hands, that felt your touch,
Though much the same, have altered much.
O gracious moon, I recall how last year
from Summer Requiem by Vikram Seth
Juvenilia 