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Flying Woes
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Satish Verma 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.
