EXCHANGE

This road will not take you to a theme. 
In wind, 
a pebble was making different strokes. 
Hanging stones were hiding 
the music of poppies. 

To fill in my glass of silver 
I place the stitches in images 
of naked wounds, slapping the 
pink roses on lips, the shadow 
of terrible interior crawling out in tears. 

The incredible space between hollyhocks 
bends down to pick up dead silk 
of fallen monarches. The colors will 
find the other side of moon 
in dark, except infinity.

Satish Verma