SINKING BOATMEN

The name, 
went begging to yield. 
Dispute was becoming a point of disorder. 
A fire on ice, I was burning inside. 

Unabated, the storm 
was raging in bush. The candor was lost. 
We were drying up in shade. One eccentric 
nerve poison was spreading. 

We will forego, the face 
and wear masks to hide our swollen lips 
and private chastity. A hairless 
loathing is born. 
Unless you are a condemned shadow, 
the portrait will stand in a corner 
for an unwritten crime, disfiguring 
the moon of tomorrow.

Satish Verma