Satish Verma

Midnight encounter. 
In moon, on sand. 
Why you were igniting a sheltered home 
of wounded pride? 

The blood spills 
over the sea, in boat. 
You were unrelenting, against traction 
violence of unhappenings. 

The blackness blooms. 
A man will cross midstream, 
writing on water the name of a lamb 
who refuses to surrender. 

I sit between the 
kisses of dragonflies. 
An empty paper nest waits for the wandering 
wasps to come back with stings.