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.

Satish Verma