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To My Greens
Folder:
Satish Verma I know, what I want.
Like peeling off the left thumb―
not to leave any whorls
and lines on your heart.
Gloved hands, seek
the vocal cards, to discern
the scream. A tea cup spills
on your spotless table cloth.
Can you read the tea leaves?
I never opted to know
my future; when there was
no present. Why to brood for the golden eggs?
Toric lens. Two curves.
I see two faces. Far and near―
My eyes blur. I cannot read the doric
of your lips― the rustic dialect.
Lets exchange the contours
of yours and mine.
