Tonight let the rainstick down
from the wall; cradle a pod
shaker in your hand, an ocarina
in the shape of a turtle or bird
that your aunt brought back for you
from her travels. Make the reed
pipes carry the oily breath of god back
into the mountains, where the green
roof of the world is burning.
The Boiling River opens its fevered
throat and all the glass frogs
and Jesus Lizards join the potoos
in stampede. Poor-me-poor-me-poor-me,
they cry. Close your eyes; the sound
they make crackles through the wood,
like thousands of lost children.
In response to Via Negativa: Book Curator.