all

eighteen

this is a sorcery
such as yourself—
the mercury in the chalice
odious to father
the serpent in the trees
from which we laid
upon and thus i hiss
under the guise of want

be still, be still

for all the more redemption
i dare resound, almost worsted
in your mouth—and you
have gone mad thinking
of your teeth
sharper than mine
of your tongue
slicker than mine

wake soon and know;
your punic faith's
quotations
are not as telling
as the creed