A CLEAN MURDER

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