Anorexic egg-timer,
no more sand falls through you.
I stroke your cold waist
and tell you it's thin,
tell you you're perfect,
and I need you, I need you,
but you're set on sulking
(self-pitying fool)
and now my tar nights aren't moving.
In vain, I try to draw a coil
of substance from a dried-ink lake
but nothing flickers, nothing bites
and the moon has fallen in
or thrown her pale self in, morelike,
bobbing flatly on the surface,
arched back making the sky light.
Hecate glides beside my path;
"Lost, my darling, lost, my pet?"
I recoil from her three heads;
one face smiling, one distraught,
one with granite eyes alight.
We both move in circles.
If I had a hook, I would fish out the orb
and hang it back where it belongs,
but it's too dark now,
and poor Strength's worn out.
