We are blown grass, rocks
sheared into pieces by wind,
box houses tumbling into
the Balili river. We are
splints of fools’ gold,
seed libraries shaken
into upended gardens.
We’d crawled into the earth
with pick-axes in search
of luck and scrimshawed
bones. We come out thick
with mud, tails between
our legs, watching as one
by one omens come true:
horses flaring their nostrils
before they step over the edge,
the sun’s lazy eye clicking
into place, fixing us all.
In response to Via Negativa: Death angel.