and she spoke,
and her lips were myth;
her tongue, song:

forehead scar shone
lodes of rune
re-membered ember
of yesteraeon soot cooked
sitting fire in ashen ire re-sired

without him

her self
felt, *******
clod alive

tooth of skull
culled forth
bone spoken
tomes uttered

and i felt her light enter
this dilating space
of ebb and ruin and alone

stile of mine
thresheld, again
footfall of wynd,
blown open
into dope field sprung swim

Oh to be wise as Croesus
Rich as the sun,
To have each raw-hacked word
Turn into spangled gold;

Or even worthless lies,
The chaff that flies off
To the winds,
Be silver pieces in our palms;

Then every word our tongues
Trip off, take form
As pearls, or onyx;
Opal, moonstone, jet.

Such rich lodes, all rough-hewn
From rock, our touchstones,
May reveal a Judas,
Kiss-deep, in our heart.