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SONG OF UNQUIET SPIRIT
Staples were traveling on the
epiderm, thanking the wounds.
The dust, the eternal ugliness
were growling.
Riveting drama:
a royal swanking for a macabre
heist. A bizarre charisma
overtakes the cozy lips.
I was green,
and I was a cloud
where the sunflowers meet
beneath the sun.
Blind poppies assert themselves
unfurling a flag of milky sap.
The wasps were going-
to become stingless.
Satish Verma
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