Poetry

Someone connects a bonsai to elemental peat.
Your visual collides a clay bite
of water, deepening the bottom of invisible fence.
My primrose was waiting for you.

Polychromes become volatile. An inventive
missile leaves the trace for a predator to scoop
an angel. I was afraid of wrinkles, the
disjunctive pain. Only an insane can walk
over the fire. The cat’s claw will take hold of freedom,
the bleeding wound of mutual hate.

I sit listening to ceasefire, shirtless soldiers
cleaning their guns, you still seek the empty vessel.

Satish Verma