Satish Verma

It was a damp kiss 
of an image. 
Dispassionately you drop 
an old coin into my hands. 

Faithless in your poem. 
I adored the Venus in twilight. 
Carnation. A rose pink color, 
appears in your eyes. 

Rising from the marshy 
slush, greater flamingos 
keep watch underneath, at the 
army of urns. 

The sameness now dithers. 
You want to weave the moon 
in your breast, unpreparing 
to open the heart.