Two stones lie on concrete carpet.
Three concentric circles spread
In glass as ice melted
Last night; time froze.
Refraction distorts our view, but then
This shop sells
Multi-coloured candies, rents
90-minutes dreams.
The wind moves from west
To east and conquers
Land. The frontier breaths, coughs,
Sneezes white froth and spits
Black kelp, chewed.
Medusas fly. Up
Front the polished armours of fallen stones
Glisten, while above the Border
Collie packs the herd into a dense, hard
Grey. The smell
Of wet wool rises
From patterned mittens. I
Bend, kneel and depose
Another broken umbrella amongst
The many at the feet
Of an overflowing can. My
Heels are exposed, the Koolie’s teeth
Too, as I return to the evening quest
For an empty seat on bus 484.
There is more than one
Tongue to cut, Tereus.
The king
Who takes what he wants never takes
Enough.
Quivering stumps will sing,
Fires leave a stinging tang.
Squelched into Arachne’s form,
Arms, legs, head; you
Impressed the shape of your
Scales on my skin,
Battering.
But women have shuttles too,
And fingers long weave
Wefts and warps in telltale patterns,
Meandering their way from eye to eye.
Athena is not only a patroness of weaving,
A bacchanalia is more than women feasting,
Replacing the blood that we loose.
Frenzied women have torn and scattered
Kings before.
We are only flesh once the bones are broken.
That much acclaimed seed
From your loins will soon fill
Your own protruding belly.
Procne procuring the roast,
I will turn the spit.
Turn.
Behold then my bespattered body,
And the head I hold;
No blood, no human warmth will ever
Warm your limbs again.
Let the spit turn. Let the feast begin.
