Poetry

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