Satish Verma

Perched on a tree high 
a moon was talking long 
to me. 

A live-in partenership 
was in vogue. We always 
loved each other breasts apart. 

The weather was changing. 
A plane load of tears would 
disappear without a trace. 

From somewhere a benign 
lump explodes, making night, 
a brilliant dream of 
sleeping sky. 

The hare jumps on the moon, 
to snatch away the ambulatory 
age, browsing around the death.