Alchemisland

From my powder pile I form some lines

From the crowd a line forms, stretching miles

Jostling not nice but not yet violent, wide eyes

Like all the owls had come inside

Skin white as Athena’s thigh, house of ivory

Coming inside a pair at a time

Can’t be repaired so let them die

Dyed hair how you get the time

Living rough and living wild

Pay the lot with crumpled fives

I don’t do lends, I don’t do friends

I bend over stove fires

Stockpiles, body piles

Moving lights still night

Still alive despite

Saying no one gets out alive

Missed but only slightly

Fight only, no instinct to flight

Magicians hexhurling in Greykirk’s redcurtained narthex 

His fingers entering her, the tomb’s secret staircase

Longinus’ fateful speartip exploring the Christviscera.