Poetry

I need not want to know for it,
a dirty mind of lateral conjugation;
of uncharted hopes. The name
splits the long story.

Everyone had a stain on chest,
color roiling the heart.
Dancing on the cocktail grass,
they started calling the moon by putting up long knives.

Unhearing the whistles in rooms of
lambs, the crosswords engaged the knot
of strongheads who had started
playing diplomacy.

Nothing changed the contours. The wind
was inheriting the scent of a rider, the
trees unheard off. Fastidious, my innocent
mind was looking at the highway.


Satish Verma