Poetry

Suckers of an octopus arm
entwine
like ziplocks
around a bleeding artifact,
for signature erase
on shared bed.

Few oily drops
simmer down
from the wheels,
the raging grief of the centuries.

Arrival had been delayed
of charred remains
of toxic news.
Repair of the ozone layer was garlanded
as a birthday gift.

I did not want the variety of answers.
Snakes and lizards have entered
into the skins of dark men.
You kill a snake,
a bruise comes on the face of the moon.


Satish Verma