Covertly

If,
I was not afraid of,
the thing, but the signature
strike of a copycat
in the art of dismantling.

You,
try to pull down brick
by brick, the
jeopardy. A dead premises
becoming alive.

How,
will you, numb with pain,
explain the poetry of victim’s trail,
becoming a Buddha?
Can you find a bo tree for me?

The,
grape hyacinth, I still
carry your globular blue
eyes, chasing my
kisses. Why in the evening?

Satish Verma