Predation
There was no clear move.
Flamethrowers were on the way-
and I was looking,
backward.
A fragile truce with the
clouds. They had abandoned-
the sky and were wringing-
the neck of mountains.
Compromising with the painted lips
of winter, my secret was out.
I was shivering in the crowd
of moon-gazers.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2015
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