You Throw Your Arms Out Wide

You throw your arms out wide, Wishing things were as they were. Ravens have settled on the cross and smile sweetly through their beaks. Dialogues are backwoods roads in mud season. Maybe they do lead somewhere. It's even on the tip of the tongue — won't come out. Silence is golden. And memory is a weather forecast. We waited for sun — and darkness loomed. Dragging a cross has somehow gone out of fashion, and it seems there was no point. Tomorrow is a gift, in a case, with piping. Who will dare to tug at the edge? Don't be sky-high proud of a little bow, Having barely scraped together enough for a stone. You set your hands on your hips And your eyes run off with the sunset. The gods are watching the game. But with vexation on a mustached face.