satishverma

ANOTHER LOVE

Give me a moment of pause 
in this eerie lull, 
I do not want to call it a day. 

The blind fist had provoked the shrine, 
before the lips started demanding 
the dazzling kiss of a knife, 

pure cut-out neck of high volted 
embrace of a tall pole, black and white 
like moon-struck anchor. 

The strip search for tear-salt 
under the unripe breast of dying flame. 
Like a trembling peacock attended by hawks. 

Not the comfort of street stone 
heals the cleft of forehead, split open 
by a shower of dancing missiles.

Satish Verma