Satish Verma

Sitting in the sun 
preparing the relic, for 
future visitation. 

The geranium bleeds 
for the god particle, which 
always eludes 
the man. 

A tiger would sleep 
in my bed, jettisoning 
the fish of your eyes. 

The glass eye breaks, 
enters the tomb of the orb 
sheltering the darkness. 

There was no clear answer― 
from the mask, as if why 
the tryst with stars failed.