Raise up red irises, swimming in smoke.
An impartial dove shall rescue us from
this garden where only citron grows.
The wishbone within couldn’t possibly offer
shelter, not now…not ever. Up and up
towards a seemingly sympathetic plateau,
endless ascents weary an already fragile mind.
The second descent (no catch for hooked
hands), just like the first, grants no asylum.
We trudge on in raven’s ruff, searching for
fabled sweet bay that blooms in the
wake of defeat…may we slumber in its