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