Fangs Open

Aghast at the―
burning brutality and domination
of the glaring sun, I will
ask the moon, when will
it release the hormones.

A palm size,
unscripted poem, struggles
to come on the surface;
pulled between the moon
and the sea.

The libidinal instinct,
overtakes the activist. A newly
minted face throws the shadow;
equivocal. The traffic of
poppies will freeze in the tracks.

Here are the keys and
there were the locks.

Satish Verma