Huddled on the floor, around
your fountain, I wait —
burning for your words to

come softly to my hands–
the watery rendering
of jewels and umbrellas.

In your eyes —
a wash of coloured water,
and a dark current

that effervesced,
a theorem of your frailty
as your cheeks burned crimson.

Do you still burn, my Melusine?

On the phone, I am marred
by your gospels of bitter
liquorice and listen —

as your words weep glitter,
and drift —
like thick snow falling softly.

And I still burn to be like you–
my Melusine.

Do you not see
that your eyes
flash like Gnostic defloration?

And do you not feel

that your legs twist —
into coils of green?


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