Next Night Poem by Satish Verma
Next Night
I hate the self-immolation
of orange sex.
Weather was leaving
blue strings on the skin.
Redemption was incomplete
by sharing the legs
Lips will not knead
the ears.
Like wakng in darkness
for a passage to grief.
Black moon will step aside
for a flame at the end of tunnel.
Friday, July 23, 2010
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5/5/2024 4:29:44 AM # 1.0.0.1119
