Knives draw water
into orchestras of cisterns
and sound Sundays by the bottle.
The mirror shards
recant their alto and baritone tales,
how they grew rusty between encores,
how they’re starving…
Beside the tiger’s den
it all becomes a slurry,
found miracles are welcome,
with open arms, and expectant eyes,
no avail, as per usual.
Not a dash of rainbow,
nor sprig of lace,
can find the words from which to speak.