Watchıng Our Warts

Sloping down in gold pursuit
of a bruised city,
sons of nameless fathers
were changing the generic mandate.

I am becoming fluvial
going on a muted odyssey
to find unmarked graves.

Slaughtering
your own lines, in praise of end-
which came very soon;
before the windows altered the moon.

Genes spilled on the road
recalling the wounded
son whose lexicon took him
to war with the meanings.

Satish Verma