Unfinished

Can you enlarge the moment,
when the time stopped and
you were trying to get a
glimpse of beyond?

You become a no-moment, a
no-truth, in a sauteed
orgasm.

And someone plucks a death
from your poems to
resuscitate you, draped
in tears.

The track record will show,
you were only yourself,
and never became a riddle.

Let go of me. It was only
a happening, undoing the
play, held in dark. As I
cross the door, you become invisible.

Satish Verma