Empty words, paper moccasins.
The Shepherd glides across the mountain, lamb-less, without a tongue.
He lands in custard waters, glistening silver.
Behind his eyes is nothing; only a quivering promise.
She calls to him, but he won’t look back.
Crisp breaths.
And then he dives, and the skin rips across his back and the Archangel’s wings burst from his ribs.
Clipped flight. God’s voice is like thunder,
A rumbling opera, a light in the fog.
He curls through the canyons,
Bright orange melody,
Shapes them like bodies,
Feminine curves.
The Shepherd lands, laughs, breathes again.
The Young Boy grips the spin top between his fingers.
“What is this?” He shouts, over the lightning that rains down on the rocks.
The Shepherd gives his tongue-less answer, and the sky bursts open,
The stars rain down.
“This is the living, living off the dead.”