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As if they were all a mistake–the gray clouds,
the white outline of the moon
still out in the early morning, the tree with no fruit–
the sheep lie underneath them all wanting to know the truth.

Could truth wear something made of wool, a sweater,
pants, a jacket with a carnation pinned to its lapel,
to the wedding of finch and horse?
Were the sheep, themselves, an element of beauty?

Last night, truth walked hand in hand with the lonely,
all the refugees of sleep and disaster.
It grew a mustache for the occasion
then flipped its top hat, and winked its eye

to the promise of love in the pawnshop windows
where dolls wearing the various dresses of destiny,
stood next to stuffed birds
and, next to them, the name of the taxidermist

who stuffed the earth full of tulips and roses.
It’s hard to say what the pawnbroker believed in
every night as he looked toward the heavens and wondered
what message the string of stars formed on the earth’s forehead

wondered about what other mistakes,
besides wearing two different shoes, he had made that day
before closing shop and scurrying on to dinner like a rat
all the while confused about truth, sheep, and such.