11 May, 2011

RETURN OF THE POET

It is autumn 
grapes are bleeding. 


The orange color 
seeps into your eyes. 
Will you shut the green lids? 

You, 
start reading backward. 
Atavistic instinct 
to dig up the severed hands? 

Your house, 
died 
in the flower bed. 
Seeds were crying.

Satish Verma

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