This Map of the Profane
Erin Elkins Radcliffe
Blur of cactus flower,
mountain under cloud:
a single red bird calls
nowhere near where it should be
above gray fish in grayer water.
The rain is safe
the foxtail, unrushed:
but you already know
I lost you everywhere.
Some hawks, spilling now
from where God could plummet.
Would I ever see you coming?
We waste heaven,
all of us.
