Satish Verma

The caterpillar on the lawn― 
in the name of god, 
eating away the copper, 
the blue veins of thighs. 

Barefoot I come to wish 
you farewell. You must stand― 
in the decaying woods, 
to pronounce me dead. 

The auburn fawn climbs on 
the podium, to mimic a birdsong. 
It was sloth time. Moon was 
away and it was dark. 

The eagle swoops on tiny 
breasts, popping up from the 
nest of muse. There were no 
feathers and no beak left.