INTERLOCKED

Between the tremors 
falls the face 
in a glass of water. 
Sometimes false teeth reverberate 
through the pages of history; devastation 
sinks in. A faun rubs the landscape. 

Hatchlings come out when death-music 
stops. A miracle tends to quieten the bones. 
You should not hate me, 
it was the method of ruines, the spirits 
hover like vampires. Tell me have you 
seen the street walking? 

A table sings in a kitchen, the knives 
peel off the stars, a moon dips in milk 
of morality. The house was in disorder, 
but the bougainvilleas were shedding 
ceaselessly the colourful leaves. 
Summer was coming.

Satish Verma