Poetry

On a wrinkled trajectory
the blood averts to abstract remission,
I am out of place in time and history.

Try to nudge the jumping ants
with their cyberweapons
ready to strike the antique nectaries

of judgements. The predators were
coming. Killing for long necks and
pinkish lips. You envision a period..

of dearth for visage, for phrases
of dead skins: I start dismembering
the past, contained in future.

This was a total disaster of unknowing,
adrift between the fingers;
sands of time, ungrained, unwatered.


Satish Verma