Hello ink, oh blood of my heart,
Hello girl, lying in the spread blankets of the summer-in-winter that is my heart-grove. Hello, and here is wine for you to drink. Don't ask whence it came, don't ask. It is my ink, of course. It is this, that, and the other, the source of all liquidity. I am, as I have always been. I am, as I am on course, the river by my side and the sand-wights smiling up from their pearl-beds, their weed-beds. The stars all caught in the river reeds, the cooling sun down-sinking behind the groves of my heart trees, the bees in the wild styx-flowers making blood-honey. This is where you have come in, o' foreigner, o' dearest friend. And I cannot fault you for stepping away so as not to be consumed by me, enveloped, for who wishes to be smothered by blood and breathing fire? And there is no difference among these, pen and pages, blood and ink. There is no song which is kept from you, here-

And they have all gone off, at once, in your ear-

You better run.

<<agé chose>>

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