Poetry

The restless legs take you,
weightless, to marshes
to find the stilts.
The sea was rising.

What was inside our tongues;
such unclosing stink,
we were afraid to spit it out?
The wronged angels were waiting.

A topless soul wanders in the
rainforest.Amazing, the tigers were
dead without wounds.You sit on
the window for marrying a moon.

The quick grafting of the roses was
useless.All night it had rained. The hail-
tones were as big as skulls. Eyes were
gouged out and time was blind.


Satish Verma