What did you know of the darkness of god’s plan? Or how the flesh is so frail it is hardly more than a dream.
In dreams his pale bride came to him out of a green and leafy canopy.
At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small penknife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.