not the totality of the eclipse or all the truth or the actual words of the refugee woman

the truth lies in slants
of billows of crescent crumbs
of the bitten sun

falling through the cracks
in the waves of dappling leaves
under the table

split by blinding fire
shadows like the moon’s children
drop glinting sickles

like morsels of cakes
into the mouths of muddles
of new pups that swell

like shoals of the spawn
of darkness and light that stream
in the flood that drowns

the earth in washes
of bodies and words and drips
of the dying sun