Satish Verma

The tibial spiking 
now hurts. 
The floaters on the dried bed― 

of bones, speak volumes 
of sand in eyes. 
Pawns have disappeared. 

The earth is wounded. 
A snake climbs onto the pink lips 
to know its crime. 

The matter interacts wrongly 
with radiation. Spectroscopy 
fails up to the hilt. 

On the spur of the moment 
I ignite the shadow 
of the space between us. 

The miser starts counting the coins.