Satish Verma
Gold Coins
A hate apart, living in embraces,
one night― you find the
bridge collapsed― in the
forest of skins.
In exasperation― I watch
the face of the adultery. I
will know― I am going too fast
for the hypocrisy.
Why you were becoming too
cozy to the silence of the necks.
The little feet are not―
able to run for the morning star.
Shutting the lamps. No moths
will descend on the books― no
bleeding of the verse, so
you can become empty of arithmetic.
https://truml.com