Kindled Night

Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests. The black ice now enters the eye of a needle. A barefoot noun feeds the junta. The butter babies will serve the poetry of poor on the mats of principles. I will remain unslept on straw. A newspaper eats the story this side. After the bloodbath surgeons weep. An armless lover hugs a priest for not calling the gods. Satish Verma