Consensual drop.
White bougainvilleas
were falling
on green eyes,
as I climb the sun.
Not a loss.
The seeds will carry
an image of a fallen
hero on the hairy chest
of a spilled sperm-
into the rippled lake
of a crowd chanting the enemy’s
death. The heritage
of corrupt state will bury
the memorial of a honeycomb.
Do you hear a meltdown
of an ululating monk?
A piercing trill comes from
a scalp scooping the wardrobe
of a dethroned king.
Satish Verma
