elle n'est pas ici
she passed down the roads long ago. she is not here.
holes rent in armor, shot through these rooms,
a lost stone, lost spark, in the snow-fletched Noël.
bring here the hunstmen with practiced craft,
those archers, these seekers, looking to burn.
but there is no fire in her trembling flesh,
and her bones would frost the midday sun.
a cold liar she made to speak laughter as a native tongue,
the words, for cutting with a quicksilver edge
transformed for mending, green ivy stitched over skin,
left with her to flee the ones come searching.
the rooms are as dust, the words torn out.
she is not here. she has gone on.