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Avoiding The Virtue
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Satish Verma In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.
An invisible ink, of late
marks the error
of autumn. A lone survivor
of leaves of time, would not
break the word.
The donated eyes will not
see the dreams. You can
boil the bones to get the truth.
Somewhere a guilt prospers.
It is what you don't think.
