A Clean Murder
Standing on a beam,
shrine :
holding a black dawn,
my phoenix roving on dark river.
The bell still clangs ;
I hear the footsteps.
A weird thought
spreads out on peripherals,
makes holes,
the undone communiqué
of a war
between knuckles ;
the blind eyes
lift the fallen globe
of light.
I move from tree to tree.
Who was left unburned ?
The sky was overcast.
SATISH VERMA
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