Snowfall of harpsichord, longing of the loon. There, these voices the slight angel offered. Such were the born fruits of June.
Catchless were the albacore lifting, were the sand dabs shifting in the ocean, in the sea world of Cecilia.
Where gentle sharks with lemon pedigree upfluffed her foam, lurched her to desire, where she faltered, where her fear wet the fire. There down under, inside deep Cecilia.
Where grass-stained colts, white-minded in the syrup and kindling of recent wombs, are lark friends and bare no ill pills for lost Cecilia and her sainted spiders...
...the noble cryptics of some shivering river.
Oh, don't cry Cecilia. Don't ripple dark pools with the juice of your sadness. Don't let the passing of things hasten your own passing.
Kick and scream. Drape in amber madness every battle you wage. Drink more scotch. Taunt freely the ravages of age.
Lady of sheep. Sand merchant of sleep on the gasping moors and plain. What is your name, Cecilia? Tell us where you live, and what it means, or where your trail without footsteps leads.
(collage by Antonio Mendoza)
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