Pain Killer

by Satish Verma

A city dies in me
anacephalic.
A white sheet spreads/
blinding.

You don’t feel the epidural.
Untitled, death walks/
like a whore/
contamination of inbreeding.

Recycled pain
hurts again. You want
to give a stillbirth
over the dense-packed nettle.

First birthday of a dream.

09-Jun-2011

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