This city is a garbage dump of spoiled lunches.
A lost child lasts forever.
Landfill: Sour milk puddles in crinkles of
Xmas wrap (shiny green-gold). Can you taste
what’s left over in a mother’s mouth
after she answers the questions?
Little girl last seen walking down Shiloh Street.
No child is anyone’s forever.
Scraps. Scrape of metal on metal underfoot,
a city’s waste gathering more as
greenbriar strings its barbs through the woods.
No news is good news. No body.
The true meaning of lost is a songbird
flying south. Sunrise illuminates
the paths of edges. I’ve wound myself through
miles of briar, ticked my steps in thorn.
Logbook: Unit 6 found nothing.
A child missing is a bird-song flown.
Volare. This speechless city.
What the stone knows, it keeps to itself.
A child learns to flap her dark wings.