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