Sacrifice

after Tarkovsky


The present
slips along the brim of a pink hat
circles a dead tree then
this slow world, a shaky bike

spans the stretch of fields,
cold fields carefully look

through a window
characters weave hope and
dried flowers, parade
over spilling milk

a rhythm in steps unnumbered
not planned, no,

never counted and cyclical
should be this way:
the mirror asking, "who are you
to brush my hair so carelessly?"