TERRACOTTA

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