Satish Verma

Will not donate 
my bloodstained shirt. 
It divides the cuffs. 

The alphabet turns 
around to watch the fall 
of syntax. 

Everynight I wait 
for the moon to rise 
from the crescent of golden eyes― 

for another encounter 
with a god, who 
would not listen to soliloquy 

of a rich begger― 
sitting in the ruins of a temple, 
he built of dreams.