Down in the cellar.
By the river, by the candlelight.
She sits with her pale grey

Eye that points and beckons,
Beckons to the gibbering
Of incessant trees.

She calls out to the Man she
Is destined to meet
Like everyone else.

Like the curdling of what
Is there, faceless, at birth.
A Figure proceeds out.

From his coat He pulls a
Golden pin that is as long as
A day or longer. He smiles,

He takes her hand and stabs.
Her wrist beads with the
Dawn. It runs down her arm.

She smiles, she takes her candle
By the wick and feeds
A Man

Her flame.
Under the speculative moon.
Under the sleeping house.

Finally, a sigh from the Man.
He has no mouth to speak of.
To the river He leads her.

The water accepts her. A hand
on her neck, He the biting aid.
Not light.

Not of need, but to feed-
To cede an ember.
To burn her up in the night.