The hunger angel poised
in the watery sky above the lake.
The Dippers full of souls, offspring
of gods not dead.
The hope that floats past
the glass houses on the black
lakeshore, where fortunes are told,
ghosts suck on the rooftops.
Homes broken, unbroken,
in all of them the same
acts of faith made by
women loosening
the silk ribbons that hold
the storms of their hair.
Near-myths, these vagrant
narratives in various shades
of pale. Gestures of yearning
that were a long time ago and
never happened anyway.
