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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.

By satishverma

© 2019 satishverma (All rights reserved)


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