The inevitable sanction
of that nightly bath
dipped in the broadness of the lake under
a nuclear moon of winter destiny.

A spiral staircase sprang from the lake,
it's twisting banister snaking from the waters
dripping with the sweat of foreign tongues.

A dream dipped in a milk that I can never drink.

Wolves came then, after the rights were induced
and indulged beneath the prairie hills.
The winds of hot mist blew unforgivably around her sacred
face as we stood in those puffy coats that made us look like
beasts in the moonlight.

And after it was done, the stars that once twinkled with mystery
were falling in the fields behind us and I could see the regret in
her eyes.

She said "fire doesn't burn here."
But I believed in warrior sacrifice and after the
ritual tattoos had been applied we tied him down
and gave his body to the gods.

A mutual glance was made then, some unspoken understanding that
this didn't, will not, and couldn't possibly ever have happened.

Her walk said differently.
.

12/17/2008

Posted on 12/18/2008
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