by : Satish Verma

Seeing was to know that one does not own
what it is. I was amazed at
the glass image of imperfection
and no body knocks out the shame.

Parched land bakes into hard cakes,
opens up to eject out
the dead remains o f ideas,
humor of psychoanalysis.

A splendid driftwood mocks a gull
the relative confusion of grace;
one thing for nothing
and nothing for one thing.

A lone voice still haunts
like a puckered prayer of a weeping eye.
The wail, the kiss, the window
and unblinking moon!

SATISH VERMA