IMPERFECT PRESENT

Priests of cave temple 
go to sleep. Street urchins 
drink the thinner, eat nail polish, 
crushed lizard for a kick and then 
go without food for three days. 

The valley burns. Of what consequence? 
Sting of truth overreaches. Another committed 
icon walks through the bodies 
sleeping on slimed stones, 
somehow. 

Do you hear the wails? The sirens? 
Whole life spent on margins of future, 
drinking your own salt. A shadow 
wants to know, what was the hour 
of destiny? 

Windows tremble. The owl’s hoot hangs 
in the air. Fearful dawn fails to 
disclose the identity of death’s kiss. 
Green anemone engulfs the king crab. 
A cloud brings a message.

Satish Verma