Fugitive Swan
a moonache levitates
on blue lake
you shot me at close range
predictable encounter
the whole truth had plunged
between two eyes
self flagellation
of the waves on beach
i was walking on marigolds
your body becomes a flute
when i was writing an epilogue
on the life of a gold leaf
it was raining on the rose
like gnawing illicit drops
on the upper lip of a virgin
SATISH VERMA
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