Poetry

Evening wore a floral dress.
Blue birds announced their departure
opening red wings.

You know them, buffs
of night who would not wait for the moon
to rise and I had nothing to hide.

These tragic toes
black with gangrene
still want to mount on red clovers.

That anatomy of desire
will dance with snakes. Who knows
the beautiful anxiety of lying on hawthorns?

Satish Verma