let my children be stories.


Draw blood from my well.

Stretch it over your flesh

as if it were

gold leaf paper.


Remake me from the seas of my crying,

slit my one eye with fire.


See what I give you:

giants haven’t this frightenment.


Night comes to call.


The sorceress strives to concoct my allure.






Slight, but one of my favourites of all of them.