WHEN WEAVING STOPPED

The grain of wood
was nuanced for naked aggression.
The groping could not find
the plasma.

Some non-believers were
deemed insane
by rust-tainted smiles
of shimmering stars.

Defiant was the crushed
grass after caressing
the moon in lonely
night.

The fine truth passed
through the comb falling on
salt. The sky will not
listen to the dust.

Satish Verma