Give me a moment of pause
in this eerie lull,
I do not want to call it a day.

The blind fist had provoked the shrine,
before the lips started demanding
the dazzling kiss of a knife,

pure cut-out neck of high volted
embrace of a tall pole, black and white
like moon-struck anchor.

The strip search for tear-salt
under the unripe breast of dying flame.
Like a trembling peacock attended by hawks.

Not the comfort of street stone
heals the cleft of forehead, split open
by a shower of dancing missiles.

Satish Verma