the high priestess sits still on her throne her mottled hands beginning to sprout veins Like the roots of an ageless tree her eyes sinking low to the earth, lids heavy with sleep the abstract temple, mismatched in quilted sheets and mangled ceramic fragments encompassing her victims, the children brothers Romulus and Remus who play under a drizzled chorus of shattered glass and winter hesitates as she raises her roots to a flame of **** fuels the pyre with white snakeroot and , suckling from the Jack-in the pulpit feeds the ashen embers once again
the river Eyn, between outstretched hands flows to lands farther than ear has heard or eyes have searched and they say the land twists and shifts at her end 'til one is sailing up again
She flows like drowsy eyes in midafternoon daze languidly stretching back and forth before the haze the foggy mists that sit atop her skin smooth surface shade from daylight her sailors sleeping to sail the moonlight
I stood atop my little ship to see the faces of passers-by who watch the ships from shoreside
On each face I looked so long but always obscured was the evening sun what tree or branch, or mist or shade I cannot see what faces made
Dreary drowsy eyes begin to close she will close them, Eyn so I might sail the moonlight midnight's rays of clear and blue and bathe pensive in cerulean hue.