BURNING IN

No anchors. I was not seeking 
a blind spot 
in shadows of the wall, standing 

on a hot, glistening, obsidian, 
wearing only death-gloves 
of pink body, the caked fronds of a fossil-name, 

inviting the rain to wet the brown 
grass as tall as the fallen pride 
of a coiled accomplishment of a tiger, 

the lips nearest to the fangs of 
cobra, still nonchalant about the Murphy’s Law; 
mute belief of a blueberry 

shedding the grey ash of pollen 
from the virgin flowers of doom, 
from dream to dream, 

when the shifting of night starts 
at ground red, a white shirt climbs on 
a tank to challenge the turret.

Satish Verma