Poetry

The space shrinks
when moon breaks the black night.
An aching flotilla does not
reach home. The wait ends
in your poems.

Clutching at floating truths
you help to save the words
of predicament. Ultimately
a temple walks free
without a god.

The whiteness of false teeth
has a regular visitor
of a bright smile.
But the tender eyes were telling
a different story.


Satish Verma