Poetry

The unspoken words
had the unborn quality.
That homliness sitting around the fire pits
writhed in predatory hopelessness.
Insensitive to flesh
we were shooting the ducks in midair.

Rapture for the dirt,
deceit does not need a consonant,
the intensity confronts the meaning.

The impermanence of joy
restores the crypt;
the body was still to be brought.

On the winds
a crumpled name floats
recalling the orgies.

Satish Verma