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Post Stasis
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Satish Verma A river boiled
underneath me. How
did you pull me out?
You were doing
my vision, my thinking.
My pink bruises bleed.
A word drops out
of my poem. You pick it up
to recite the name.
The scented breath,
and a hanging tear drop
deflect in moonlight.
Sailing through the black
mountains, the golden eagle
makes a dive.
Dream merchants
are ready to sell the last
painting of blind artist.
