by Satish Verma
You could feel it.
The fear in that pristine howl
writhing in throat. Something was
wrong with the sunflowers. A genital
cutting had brought the snowdusting
on mutilated emotions.
A premonition warns. We are shining
on wrong side, under dictates of religion.
The cult will take care of mouth. You
will celebrate the breaking up of man.
The bone between the lips.
I am collecting the dirty threads of
loyalty to stitch the amnesia. They were ready to
applause the demise of moon. No more
sheen on the trees, lake and hills.
I am hauling up the skeletion of the republic.
Last updated September 10, 2012