Satish Verma

After the rain wets the ground, 
a damp, naked silence, 
floats in air 
on the wrong side of the moon. 

A strange mist, like a post coital whiff 
envelops you savagely. 
The testa breaks. 
A forest heaves beneath your nails. 

History moves through the layers 
of family. You become a forgotten saint, 
an archaic reminder of half-solid 
truth. Green mirrors reflect a fading sun. 

Wasps are climbing on a presence, 
for a kill. A lake drifts in the yes 
to stun the departure. You breathe 
death dreaming a blue flower.