Poetry

Time capsule in gangrene
foot. It was madness of the legs.
There were no sins in the ghetto. Only
illicit distillation and girls changing
the beds.

It stinks when he says he was god.
What was the ism of the sex
in the language of violence? Trash, you
throw the half-eaten apple on the road,
and sun rises nonchalantly in penthouse.

Not the full moon tonight. I will filter
the moonlight in my cup stealing the
autumn from the lavender, despair
of the tormenter.


Satish Verma