Poetry

Deep down thighs, unhoisted,
what was there, harvesting the sperms? At dusk
an inflorescence breaks into myriads
of fireworks, wrecked apologia,
interned unlikeness, insanity, kissing the goldenrod
to start the flow of bare grief.

I deserve no nobility, my moonscape
has a blazing truth about a shooting star
which went into a gape groaning. Somebody
is done for, for a fragile skull. The riverbed
buries the dead child in white sands.

That lump rises again. I said, I never carry
the death on my shoulders. Wrap up and play
the drums for I lost the pathways to enemie


Satish Verma