with the roar of the Tiger of the Lily
so soars the mask of the seventh sea.
wanderers upon the rig. pirates of a paraffin wax
spoils only the chalice
where she drinks the blood of an angry young wave.
she is somewhere about the Taurus as something else.
a shell of form. a cello of the crab. a base about the stem;
I have whistled one too many times
about the burning of the deck. about the felling of the mast;
castrated eyes upon the turning of my neck
I am all about Eve in the distance in Butterfly net
with a sweet tasting Rose and a posse of Earl Grey Bees;
she brings subsidence to my crooked ears
that craved the waking of my sleep
that carved upon the posts of my bed
three sketches of the wretched itch
that swims through the waters of my brain;
I am all but the beginning of the spiral of the reef
tethered to the tusk of the sunken chest.
I am all about Eve. and Eve?
she is all about Taurus, sister to Frigg
she is all about the asylum of the sea;
with roar of the Tiger of the lily
I am all about Eve in the twilight of my severed dust: