"cassiopeia"
Water sang in the sky as if in a cave,
Wet beads on godskin pulsing to sugar:
While spring strains, this ceremony clinks.
We don't pretend our eyes to have maps, & a
Waning evening grows old in three hundred nights.
Witch: you flower-eyed sorceress: each new look, the
World reconjures your face.
KS
|