ADDING TO WOES

Again I would hear the night sounds 
through the hours of civilities 
when there was a pause in the body 
untouchable. 

You were sleeping with counterfeits, 
running down the golden dome 
sailing over the silken clouds. 
My rough palm was still holding the pen. 

That mirage, that fire on the road 
had cheated us. You had pushed me in an 
aging portrait. Alive, I am looking at you 
from an empty glass.

Satish Verma