Satish Verma

Mauve detachment;
I wanted a short placenta.

The dust wants
to eat me. My legs give―
away, when sun goes

I will offer you
my dreams to nestle
in paws of destiny.

Don't walk on the
hot sands. They are going
to roast my poems.

I smell your pines
I drink your cones
Lake was inviting
the boat.