By Amika Sethia
exfoliating a trench of mud and silver,
bits of gold shimmered in the faint
reconciliation that burning books and
caravans tread the same path as I
when I go to hidden prairies.
soundless steps pace before me
warning me of my own shortcomings
a pause shame in sight
to the trees and rabbits,
I wither in a big city and smoking chimneys.