Give me a moment of pause
in this eerie lull,
I do not want to call it a day.
The blind fist had provoked the shrine,
before the lips started demanding
the dazzling kiss of a knife,
pure cut-out neck of high volted
embrace of a tall pole, black and white
like moon-struck anchor.
The strip search for tear-salt
under the unripe breast of dying flame.
Like a trembling peacock attended by hawks.
Not the comfort of street stone
heals the cleft of forehead, split open
by a shower of dancing missiles.
Satish Verma
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