The Red Herring

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.