I wished to read once again those incomprehensible stories of lives undone by a glance, a promise made before no significant company.


The prolonged slither and click of the beads dedicated to Green Tara (image of the Girl Prince): their coolness and the scent of sandalwood.


How could I not take it as some kind of omen when, one after the other, two small birds flew, or were tumbled by the sudden breeze, against my chest?


Mould grew upon the food not accepted: I remembered the drakaina too numb with alcohol to transmit, hiding the meal that had been carried to her.


Marius poured blond hair through the circular gateway in the tree trunk (eye socket through which I gazed): within the bower it appeared as coiling rays of light.


The fox no longer outside my office: it had given a sign of disinterest when I remarked that I must work by starlight in order to make love in the day.


Each attempt at heathen government defeated: we exist through wars that would have made Pound rock with laughter.


No history but the history of secret societies: a contract agreed before the puddles in the woods, the snake I rested my foot upon.


The ground dense with roots, standing proud of leaf dust, such poor soil: nature gives the sigils we use to glitterbomb the city.


Purposeful crow, I gaze through a tongue of flame at the feather you shed: the needle of the compass points toward the star-goddess.