Blast
In a pool of blood
a face swims.
Under the boulders
there is a muffled scream.
Your private god was not there.
The space is littered with death-snacks.
Births a bloom of limbs,
stained shirts,
twisted wheels.
Dam of tears had a breach.
Stampede of legs –
abandoning the footwears.
Faces disappearing in smoke, confusion.
Road is deserted. A white pigeon lies dead
on his back, slicing the air.
SATISH VERMA
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