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Star-Struck
Folder:
Satish Verma Sitting in the sun
preparing the relic, for
future visitation.
The geranium bleeds
for the god particle, which
always eludes
the man.
A tiger would sleep
in my bed, jettisoning
the fish of your eyes.
The glass eye breaks,
enters the tomb of the orb
sheltering the darkness.
There was no clear answer―
from the mask, as if why
the tryst with stars failed.
