I'm told that the sun dog lives
in an ice cave
covered in diamond dust
like thousands of baby suns
I walk blindly through cirrus
for signs of frosted flight
in apocalyptic towns
A feather to brush the sins from my path,
a shower of rain to renew me. What lies
have the years written in leaves,
in the lines on my mother’s face?
The book of her features is open,
I thumb through text of misdirection.
My mother is an illusionist that scatters
plumes from the beating wings of assumption.