CIRCLING

A bucketful of moon 
falls on my door 
with the smell of a salted night 
on frozen shoulders of a punctured landscape. 

I start expanding 
unseeing a sentimental lake. 
Life was asking a very high price 
for the purple bruises. 

Why do you land on the sea of names? 
Only one face sinks in the spill 
of words. Would you put the green 
rain in my glass of absinthe?

Satish Verma