Satish Verma

June 5, 1935

Racy Dreams

Sometimes you let go
ethnicity for a gentle tug
at your arm.

Gravitas. You were
always explicit about your will
to ride a tiger.

I see your face
in dark, ditching the moon.
I want to cry to hear Beethoven.

Death in crowd, I
would't ask. Where was the black
monument, where light lives?

Lapping up the silence
you start spreading the rumors.
He survives in the marriage
of thunders.

Flowers smile. O God
why were you―
hiding behind the sun?