A DARK HOUSE by Satish Verma

The accretion of a perfect squall 
when claws were out- 

scavenging novelties. A lewd 
paranoia slains a farewell 

in a trench. The chamber has 
vomited a mound of gold blinding a shell. 

The combs did not straighten 
the puff. The old man was very lonely. 

I would stop hunting the stings 
of a bare-chested moon. 

I recuse myself from judging the paperboat 
which wanted to cross the ocean.

Satish Verma