Poetry

With gray wolves around,
he put the gun on the chin
and pulled the trigger.

The crowded nest and tainted gemones:
the double helix had the sex crumbling:
consensual hate.

Some beasts and hairy saints
were turning the world black,
sitting on marbled floor and talking of white moon.

Drifting faith in swollen eyes, watching
a burning train;
tomorrow I will travel again in pursuit of walking trees.

Proud legends like scorpions
climbing on your throat. Enamelled stings
ready to spin you blue.

Clams shut on the poor pink,
honeycomb becomes a trap.


Satish Verma