On The Death Of A Friend

Unsung:
how it was, you died
wearing your shoes? The
jesamins will meet you―
in the backyard.

The stains are unwashable;
like pomegranates bursting
open on my chest. The
screams still run after me.

How do I get you midway―
in anonymity. I never wanted
you to go, my make-believer.
It was not homozygosity.

Your face swims like
a dragonfly on the interface
of tears. There was no re-entry
in the frame of life.

Satish Verma