Black Currants

You do not want to reach―
where the journey ends.

Can you keep this secret
how do I harm myself in ecstasy?
Your shadow walks―
on the lake solemnly.

I want to talk of―
the broken musicality of black
veils. Do we need to touch
the tulips under the moon?

Big toes digging in wet
grass. Grieved, not getting there
where the sink hole appeared
let the hands tremble.

You freeze in the space
between the eyes. The groove
widens to suck the guilt
which never was.

A little finger points towards the sky.

Satish Verma