Lakescape

After the rain wets the ground, a damp, naked silence, floats in air on the wrong side of the moon. A strange mist, like a post coital whiff envelops you savagely. The testa breaks. A forest heaves beneath your nails. History moves through the layers of family. You become a forgotten saint, an archaic reminder of half-solid truth. Green mirrors reflect a fading sun. Wasps are climbing on a presence, for a kill. A lake drifts in the yes to stun the departure. You breathe death dreaming a blue flower. SATISH VERMA