Alchemisland

I convert to her Word beside a turd-hosting culvert

Between Homs and Damascus. The massiveness of the moon; hark, an ulver crooning.

I swooning struggle masking how insubstantial this too-soon feeling seems;

The idol standing versus the idol rubbled, only feet

Remain. The wind variates her mane. Only me

Only Her of furze and fir, replete with heat and whirr;

When mind concedes her image’s release, my vision blurs.