Satish Verma
Fangs Open
Aghast at the―
burning brutality and domination
of the glaring sun, I will
ask the moon, when will
it release the hormones.
A palm size,
unscripted poem, struggles
to come on the surface;
pulled between the moon
and the sea.
The libidinal instinct,
overtakes the activist. A newly
minted face throws the shadow;
equivocal. The traffic of
poppies will freeze in the tracks.
Here are the keys and
there were the locks.
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