Put off the lantern.
I am waiting for the moon’s
primal face. The lesser flamingoes
were going to shed the pink color.

Nude as a python, the kiss
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation.
I suffer in the hands of protests.
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle.

A barefoot noun feeds the junta.
The butter babies will serve the poetry
of poor on the mats of principles.
I will remain unslept on straw.

A newspaper eats the story this side.
After the bloodbath surgeons weep.
An armless lover hugs a priest
for not calling the gods.

Satish Verma