O bloodmoon of pale branches
what fate do you deem my hand worthy of? my heart has yielded to you its harvest of sighs bells fade from their impossible paths for pine’s vigil where a witch’s bonfire has given land to evening will we ever again speak that ancient language? I am resisting grace - do not stir
there is blue in your thicket, for your affection you are like me
I bear your round light,
the rivers on which you sleep your golden sleep I am giving all I am to all of this
a story of salt, lot’s wife bell-jar dressed with feathers & dark breads
moon is a spectre of long trailing tresses and restless silver she has tucked her sobs away into dusk’s pockets
I am in the dark of beloved’s trees,
things essential to me come to hand: thistledown, leafsoul & and my still live birds O my beloved, pacing alone the final chamber of night you go off filled with me
we are the ones there are, and will always be do you believe this?

















