her hair claws all my entrails in the dark
we bathe in the oil
that pools in a ruined cathedral
the wastes of bitter light
that crackles over dusty fissures
in an uneven floor
tang of the crushed plant's rooted fiber
powder of a parcel of ancient leaves
pentagrams of yarn on fake flesh
compartments in a maze that never ends
she answers back from ice
that is always waiting
answers back from acres
of polished, shining wood
in a crown of spouts that shows
the trickle of inverted fountains
glowing cursed in holographic marble
the strength of her ingenious wound.
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