Imperfect Present

Priests of cave temple go to sleep. Street urchins drink the thinner, eat nail polish, crushed lizard for a kick and then go without food for three days. The valley burns. Of what consequence? Sting of truth overreaches. Another committed icon walks through the bodies sleeping on slimed stones, somehow. Do you hear the wails? The sirens? Whole life spent on margins of future, drinking your own salt. A shadow wants to know, what was the hour of destiny? Windows tremble. The owl’s hoot hangs in the air. Fearful dawn fails to disclose the identity of death’s kiss. Green anemone engulfs the king crab. A cloud brings a message. SATISH VERMA