POSTSCRIPT

The space shrinks 
when moon breaks the black night. 
An aching flotilla does not 
reach home. The wait ends 
in your poems. 

Clutching at floating truths 
you help to save the words 
of predicament. Ultimately 
a temple walks free 
without a god. 

The whiteness of false teeth 
has a regular visitor 
of a bright smile. 
But the tender eyes were telling 
a different story.

Satish Verma