she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea calms my busy light without a single word smiles at my bright aura a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy no noise no waste no haste
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand dry and warm a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man who carries a child on his back there’s a red blanket what flies on the line soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors now hanging in clusters, newly unfound dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on**
she of terminalis lives on eternal in brook and vale and bush in veins of progeny bee and also in the crickets of the field