by Satish Verma
The accretion of a perfect squall
when claws were out-
scavenging novelties. A lewd
paranoia slains a farewell
in a trench. The chamber has
vomited a mound of gold blinding a shell.
The combs did not straighten
the puff. The old man was very lonely.
I would stop hunting the stings
of a bare-chested moon.
I recuse myself from judging the paperboat
which wanted to cross the ocean.
Last updated January 10, 2013