A drifting in the heart. Long
Sounds that find no solace. No matter
Where they go they remain wanderers.
We will find them on the shores of the lake
After storms that rip the lining of the night
Easily from its darling moon.
Someone must have seen where the careful
Touch has gone, where the sandals cut
The crust of the morning away from the bread
And no hand, oh pretty creatures they are,
could move move as brutally, tearing the stars
Down from the black lion of night,
All kindness gone, its blue cart tipped
On its side in the crowded streets.
No one wonders any longer
Dammit all anyway all they ever
Wanted were blankets to keep warm
And just a touch of a hand,
Someone to say, “Do not be afraid at all.”