White Snakes

Satish Verma

A retrograde flow
of subtlety. The
letters have gone out of shape.

Can you read the
fog, when night stalls
the moon?

How do I express
my agony, this huge precipice
of denials?

Love your enemy
was not my cake. A
tender no was enough to subtract.

Suddenly you start
flirting with yourself. After all
you melt in the picture
of fall.