Poetry

With fractured hands
I lit a pyre
of small nudes
with pink globes.
A moon bleaches me white in a long night.

A reprieve was needed
from the scorching sun
opening a jinx
of a metaphor.
The poems will take care of the burning home.

Of deaths and forecasts
I would like to see the
ending of descent
from the mount of pain
The ice will tremble in the smoke.

Satish Verma