Post Stasis

A river boiled
underneath me. How
did you pull me out?

You were doing
my vision, my thinking.
My pink bruises bleed.

A word drops out
of my poem. You pick it up
to recite the name.

The scented breath,
and a hanging tear drop
deflect in moonlight.

Sailing through the black
mountains, the golden eagle
makes a dive.

Dream merchants
are ready to sell the last
painting of blind artist.

Satish Verma