She sleeps so beautifully, your desire for truth, curled up and comatose
while the wolves roam freely, sirens blaring to the call of freedom
while wise men sit in shadows and count beans and rocks
waiting for the return of the potters who will sit in rags
and bare feet and make jugs.
When they are dry from the kiln, and the fire has hardened them
we still put them in the sun to bake
they need to be extra strong
to hold the water from the dam.
