Poetry

The bone line travels
from flesh to flesh,
tears into blood.
I was not crude, not blunt.
Dew teasers,

were my guests with luggage
of pain, ready to dip to taste
the language of surrender.
There was no acrimony
between enemies.

Across a hot blazing desert
walking barefoot to find you
in a vein of green water, O my curse
I will scoop you into my poem
to become a daisy.

Satish Verma