DECKS ARE CLEARED

You are dying inside me, 
my little god. 
I am awakening after a long pause. 

The forked hazel wand 
does not bend back, perched on a buried treasure. 
I am disembarking from divining. 

I stayed without body, nervous; 
like aspen leaves trembling at slight doubt, 
hearing footfalls of dew drop. 

Fear of old fear arrives again, 
when the seeds begin to explode 
in the womb of a fallen tree. 

For the spoken word, sting in the tail 
becomes star-struck. Death zone enlarges on black 
pyramid. Conscience is on its descent.

Satish Verma