Satish Verma

I like to rage on with 
flying snakes. The fog deepens. 
You skid on the ice of the bridge 
after the freezing rain. Infidelity 
becomes the pick of the day. I 
look at my Goldie, the pug, 
sitting on the step. Waiting for me 
like a meditating Buddha, eyes 

Let me see your hands. Your 
bones are becoming frail, twisted. 
You cannot lift the book, hold 
the pen. When you write, your hands 
start trembling, as if you are 
being watched, to write your last 
will or ready to jump in the river. 

Life had been very cruel. 
When you said, you are a dervish, 
the hyenas started laughing.