Old Habits

I wanted to make
you my friend.

The combative
bull-taming on milk roads
was in vogue.

Somebody was talking
about the rape of
rising sun on the
higher reaches.

A marathoner stops
midway to collect the nails
after the bonfire of shoes.

The festivity over, you
can sing in the praise
of fallen black moons.

The gifts of crimes, for
bounty hunters, were in plenty.
I always stood in dark
to evaluate the triangles.

Satish Verma