BLOOD DIARY

Writing on sleeves 
to remember your departure 
and becoming a stray cloud. 

The maternal touch 
of the sky, you can sleep whole life 
on dense logics. 

White sheets were burning 
unannounced in the home. 
I lost the key, to open the door. 

All I wanted to tell you 
about, selling the roses. 
Thorns must not go free. 

The snake was shedding the skin, 
time to hone on whetstone. 
The tender loaf was ready.

Satish Verma