Faith goes into hiding in a cave
of even takes.
Holding on to what she knows:
the great Mayan lake is in despair.
I'll look for you in Panajachel
if there's still anyone to find.
I'm folding into achy spates
of the doubts that lacerate
flowing down volcanic slides of time
Are we turning into the Atitlán Grebe?
Has our swallowed earth run dry?
Did the reef's luster rust with the tide's early fuss?
Where is that land where I can roam?
Was it a shadowless, motherless
asynchronous moon?
We'll stay apart
but close enough to touch.
A drunken butterfly
crawling to its broken wings
wraps the ethereal hug
with a blanket made of shrugs
flowing down volcanic slides of time.
Are we turning into the Atitlán Grebe?
Has our swallowed earth run dry?
Did the reef's luster rust with the tide's early fuss?
Where is that land where I can roam?
Was it a shadowless, motherless
asynchronous moon?
We'll stay apart
but close enough to touch.
A drunken butterfly
crawling to its broken wings
wraps the ethereal hug
with a blanket made of shrugs
flowing down volcanic slides of time.