Streaking Alone

Like sly coyotes you move around the fireballs. You switch off the earthly lights. They are now oranges. Presently a broker will sell the wounds of the moon. Why did you feel sad of something which was unsaid ? A thousand and one words will speak when the poem would be brought dead. You are not here not in the nakedness of lies, when something glitters which was not yellow. The twilight now settles in your eyes. Moon refuses to plunge into darkness. Satish Verma