The fog rolled back and forth over
Moat Creek sixteen times
this morning undecided it seems
yes
fickle
leaving only enough moisture as if one were to feed water
into a bird’s mouth with an eyedropper just a tease.
I see things Differently now but am still tangled in that story about how we might
have been Eurydice and Orpheus in a new historical and mythos of modern love,
Not quarantined to this realm of faerie and mossy tomb
not this life with no clear
path before me warmed by sun&steam.
I can sing like an angel when I drive my car and I will charm the Lord of the Dead with my finely painted map of Hades
with my newly acquired caution
my sing songy irreverent mocking of Cause&Effect.
my refined beguilement
I will steal the heart of the Lord of the Dead, preserve it in
a silver acorn
worn around my neck hung from the fishing line
I cut from Neptune’s hook.
