Predation Poem by Satish Verma
Predation
There was no clear move.
Flamethrowers were on the way─
and I was looking,
backward.
A fragile truce with the
clouds. They had abandoned─
the sky and were wringing─
the neck of mountains.
Compromising with the painted lips
of winter, my secret was out.
I was shivering in the crowd
of moon-gazers.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/10/2024 5:29:24 PM # 1.0.0.1119
