Unblaming

Can you see the smoke
coming from
the brick kiln?

The finches
were jumping into firepit
one by one.

To enlarge―
the space between groping
and assault.

There was no need
to start an uproar
about pungent―

black forest of silences.
A face is suspended in midair.
That simply was not there.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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