Imperfect Present
Priests of cave temple
go to sleep. Street urchins
drink the thinner, eat nail polish,
crushed lizard for a kick and then
go without food for three days.
The valley burns. Of what consequence?
Sting of truth overreaches. Another committed
icon walks through the bodies
sleeping on slimed stones,
somehow.
Do you hear the wails? The sirens?
Whole life spent on margins of future,
drinking your own salt. A shadow
wants to know, what was the hour
of destiny?
Windows tremble. The owl’s hoot hangs
in the air. Fearful dawn fails to
disclose the identity of death’s kiss.
Green anemone engulfs the king crab.
A cloud brings a message.
SATISH VERMA
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