Return of the Poet
It is autumn
grapes are bleeding.
The orange color
seeps into your eyes.
Will you shut the green lids ?
You,
start reading backward.
Atavistic instinct
to dig up the severed hands ?
Your house,
died
in the flower bed.
Seeds were crying.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2011
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