Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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Hurting Myself

The blue stare
will stretch on the horizon.

A princely moon
enters the perforate shell―

in the oviform eye,
of the bruised lake.

I was ready to drink
the potion, the viper offers.
Tears and laughter, the
twin ecstasy of dying

by hinged fangs.
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