Poetry

Everybody was half-naked on the trail
of curves. Braindead. Emptied thought.
A single vacant look.
"Why me? " I ask. Stay stupid in the crowd. Looking
at the moon, indulgent. Plucking the nector from
knobs of naked flames.

No coming back from days of unknowing
the secrets of unskopen words. A cry stifles
in the throat of a prayer.

A moon was found on a dump!


Satish Verma