Poetry

A bucketful of moon
falls on my door
with the smell of a salted night
on frozen shoulders of a punctured landscape.

I start expanding
unseeing a sentimental lake.
Life was asking a very high price
for the purple bruises.

Why do you land on the sea of names?
Only one face sinks in the spill
of words. Would you put the green
rain in my glass of absinthe?


Satish Verma