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Unbuttoning
Folder:
Satish Verma Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm―
to read the message.
I have come very far,
from the old stinks.
It was not the escape.
The unshaped sap,
spills from the cut end―
of treetops. I gather your cones.
The fall begins abruptly.
It was a landslide of
leaf drop. Yellow and brown.
I wait for the red.
It reminds me of blood
dripping from your poem.
