KUPFERNICKLED

Looked downward  
the granite face, 
to see imprinted kupfernickeled 
god, lying in dust. 

From where to where 
we have come sleepwalking? 
In freezing winds, like brown angels 
with swollen lids. 

White moon-poised to commit suicide? 
Blindfolded heavy as lead 
in the trade of spared lies? 
Back pain will carry us not very far. 

Green stems have yellow leaves now. 
We start blaming ourselves 
to keep the winter away, 
in torn shirts.

Satish Verma