ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE

ANCHORAGE

ANCHORAGE

I do not want to take you,

either the road ahead,

or lovely gyrations

on low stage of voicelessness.

The swoop of eagle

on a little bundle,

of chromatic fever:

was it unbirdy?

The tree of death grows taller

than indelible darkness

of life, harvesting

tongues.

Part of me were you,

I had abandoned in fog.

The gate will not open

in common courtyard.

Satish Verma

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ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE, ANCHORAGE

By: Satish Verma

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