Rendezvous

Wanting more of you 
in the bed of moon, 
where present and past 
were disrobing. 

The bee stings, O my god, 
arrange the pure darkness 
of milk, 
hanging on persona of future. 

The yielding was painful, 
its blankness. You were 
collecting the hooks. I was letting 
free the fish. 

Green was my perch 
on the white paper, 
rewriting your name without ink 
for the sake of hunting the lamp.

Satish Verma