Burning In
No anchors. I was not seeking
a blind spot
in shadows of the wall, standing
on a hot, glistening, obsidian,
wearing only death-gloves
of pink body, the caked fronds of a fossil-name,
inviting the rain to wet the brown
grass as tall as the fallen pride
of a coiled accomplishment of a tiger,
the lips nearest to the fangs of
cobra, still nonchalant about the Murphy’s Law;
mute belief of a blueberry
shedding the grey ash of pollen
from the virgin flowers of doom,
from dream to dream,
when the shifting of night starts
at ground red, a white shirt climbs on
a tank to challenge the turret.
SATISH VERMA
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