Most afternoons, I sweet tea through fields
of grief where prophets gather to feed.

The chickens have gone to roost. Soft mouthed
bears come calling. All winter

this was how I saw them. Even when floods
drowned the moon, those sibyls were out

of order, sowing wishbones along the path.
Old songs uncover thorns. Pluck these

feather-bones, pare the blood beneath my nails.
Most afternoons, I renounce everything. I am

staying forsaken, keeping a few claws in a drawer,
giving way to vagrant lovers.