UNBLINKING

Seeing was to know that one does not own

what it is. I was amazed at

the glass image of imperfection

and no body knocks out the shame.

 

Parched land bakes into hard cakes,

opens up to eject out

the dead remains of ideas,

humor of psychoanalysis.

 

A splendid driftwood mocks a gull

the relative confusion of grace;

one thing for nothing

and nothing for one thing.

 

A lone voice still haunts

like a puckered prayer of a weeping eye.

The wail, the kiss, the window

and unblinking moon!

 

 

SATISH VERMA