Today, upturned, I look for the lie,
the strawberry syrup disguising the base
that drips from the tongue of the mockingbird mime
to a crystal decanter of sky.
Where truffle pigs root through a midden of pearls
all stamped with a date of expiry
inspiring stampedes as the dogma decrees
with a sniff from its perch in the sun.
And nobody looks in their pockets,
and nobody stands on the ground; instead
they despair, with their feet in the air
and I bleed, but their glasses are empty.