Words

Was it sacrilege to reenter the bones of knuckles thinking of your primrose, a backlash of twigs in garden of homeless birds, a high-profile sweep starting a mad rush of blue winds in the confused landscape of life ? my hills are strewn with bones of eaten, half-cooked lines of defence, the diplomacy not working to mimic peace; dead words grip my truths; must you kill the surgeon who has severed the wrist of a thief. I am falling unbidden on Pole Star, the terror on the wings of flying swans, a child sits on a chair with enormous head shaking involuntarily and the cyclone breaking on the dumb noddings of failing light. SATISH VERMA