Who can trust the word of a bird
Whom said she was dead
All squawk and no walk
As he flies in his skies

His quest out West
Left him hurt in the dirt
Now he's the talk of the flock
As they tend to his bends

All fringed with a singe
Are those feathers that we tethered
To the lies we did cry
The blame is our shame

All that pain we had lain
I now see as we flee
From the worst of our curse
We are the Cost of Your Lost

the wheather was cold until your eyes
I do not understand
One bird was frozen
I think my heart

I cannot get to you.  You
are like Jerusalem, a
misguided city. Your name is exposed
to the sun while i call to you in the
silence of the volcanic pre-dawn.
You have slides of affectation.
A pilgrim might mistake
you for the safety of a handhold
hammered in the sand.

Other
travelers knew the peril of
your affection.

You don't  reply. So cold the
monument, so silent
the wall of your response.

This is all I know
and so do you that the
messages of the world fall
like the snow on the ground
white with shadows. Mute
replicas of shared emotion.

Drink to us the sour
vinegar of the sponge.

Caroline Shank
June 16, 2022