SEEKING

The falling poem was 
in bruising gamble of winter 
of troubled life, 
bound to a staircase: 
up and down 
up and down, 
on the rosette of grieving thighs. 

From sunset to sunset 
a moon rises in all its glory 
as the night flows in crevices of thoughts. 
Will you lift the veil from the golden face 
and sacrifice the lamb? 
The infinite was waiting to come out of crotch.

Satish Verma