Poetry

Between the tremors
falls the face
in a glass of water.
Sometimes false teeth reverberate
through the pages of history; devastation
sinks in. A faun rubs the landscape.

Hatchlings come out when death-music
stops. A miracle tends to quieten the bones.
You should not hate me,
it was the method of ruines, the spirits
hover like vampires. Tell me have you
seen the street walking?

A table sings in a kitchen, the knives
peel off the stars, a moon dips in milk
of morality. The house was in disorder,
but the bougainvilleas were shedding
ceaselessly the colourful leaves.
Summer was coming.


Satish Verma