By Anna Maria Hong
churned to agitation. We fastened a cloak round
the nape of nation. We have clustered to bear
the weather. 40 jewels for 50 thieves
To spackle our sorrow in ochre,
to carve a sun from a carcass of grapes.
We will knead the wine’s mother.
We will sip her from a lake. Three
gold eyes above a trellis.
Three gold eyes bespeak.
A thousand eyes for 50 thieves.