Poetry

a moonache levitates
on blue lake
you shot me at close range

predictable encounter
the whole truth had plunged
between two eyes

self flagellation
of the waves on beach
i was walking on marigolds

your body becomes a flute
when i was writing an epilogue
on the life of a gold leaf

it was raining on the rose
like gnawing illicit drops
on the upper lip of a virgin


Satish Verma