look out the window into the bowels of eternity—

roses on the joshua tree and never deception

just a brown arm swaying softly in the autumn air,

his dreams carved hieroglyphs into the drying mud below .

--

turn, you reluctant leader—

--

twist your sweet grass into wheat-coloured prairie braids

and dive into the murky creeks of half-forgotten forefathers,

scratching your knees and hoping that the auburn blood won’t offend

traitor, we whispered

--

pretty glass shards, reflect your inchoate indecisiveness and watch

how the war-torn villages crumble to ashes beneath your feet—

--

—memories could not love you now: tes ailes sont brisées