Poetry

Lead me into, the green darkness, under
the nude flames.
It was hurting; the golden sun.

Out of full moon, werewolves would
come out
chasing the flesh, the long limbs

of silence, in asci of fluids, stopped
in tracks.
No seed will grow now in wilderness.

My extended shade becomes anarchic
if fleetingly.
A miracle falling like a hurricane.


Satish Verma