Chaste Tree

A poem writes my name. I am trembling on paper like salt. Flowing like moon on the black wound. The lamb and the skull. I know the saint invented by masses. You need a fresh awakening. A vastness from nothing to nothing. Later the pebbles will dance on the bay of death. Sometimes the scales were jinxed, sometimes the weight was light. I was sitting under a chaste tree. SATISH VERMA