MOVING OFF

After a long time, I heard them again: 
peacocks. 
Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees; 
poised to open sexuality. 

Ah, the purple lips of a downing 
cloud sets the sky on a chase 
for a lost love of the blazing 
moon in the starless night. 

A recent pluck of a sharp grace folds 
the lingerie, you open the fist to let 
the explosion fly away. 
This was the start of a crimson romance.

Satish Verma