A Nonarrival Poem by Satish Verma
A Nonarrival
Munitions in place
you were ready
to strike.
What you wanted to
find out, I had
found in my poems.
It was the dark night―
that becomes ink.
I am writing in black letters.
What was the
obsessive cult of
fingertips, holding the pen?
Sometimes you look
at you, when
you were not you.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/9/2024 6:15:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
