Unsequenced Poem
the oily slap of the lake
on artifacts-
skulls and concrete blocks
the jut of a rusting phallus
burgeoning out of the rock
all half overwhelmed, all
talking, very quietly; rivets shivering
in the torsion of the instances
of crest, trough, deny.
She came there, water-walker,
exorciser, talker to spirits and stones;
pinching eyelids, knotting tongues,
ensuring that the victims
can only weep back into their throats.
Their slow genocide wraps
their cord around its finger, marking off
unnumbered ticks. She sits on them,
faerie's ring,
wings and crowns and croziers
strewn among the stones.
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