To My Greens

I know, what I want.
Like peeling off the left thumb―
not to leave any whorls
and lines on your heart.

Gloved hands, seek
the vocal cards, to discern
the scream. A tea cup spills
on your spotless table cloth.

Can you read the tea leaves?
I never opted to know
my future; when there was
no present. Why to brood for the golden eggs?

Toric lens. Two curves.
I see two faces. Far and near―
My eyes blur. I cannot read the doric
of your lips― the rustic dialect.

Lets exchange the contours
of yours and mine.

Satish Verma