I Am Not

Satish Verma

Time capsule in gangrene 
foot. It was madness of the legs. 
There were no sins in the ghetto. Only 
illicit distillation and girls changing 
the beds. 

It stinks when he says he was god. 
What was the ism of the sex 
in the language of violence? Trash, you 
throw the half-eaten apple on the road, 
and sun rises nonchalantly in penthouse. 

Not the full moon tonight. I will filter 
the moonlight in my cup stealing the 
autumn from the lavender, despair 
of the tormenter.

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