Flying Woes

The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.

An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak

of the dead river, of elegy.

No life―
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice―
in north and south.

The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.

Satish Verma