The French called them enfances
stories about the childhood of great men
heroes before they could lift up the sword
we are infants too and we have swords
we call them memories to use against the world
is what just seems to happen
remedium amoris remember the last time
the taste in your mouth the nasty telephone
things never change the way you do
cause without effect tugboat awash in storm
I love the taste of what won’t let me be
thighs of a scarecrow feathers of a clock.
Take a long time to work it out
merciless mankind at the mill with slaves
of course I remember my masters
John O’Clock and William Psalm W.S.
brown Thomas and the Jewess of Baltimore T.B. G.S.
I am the Middle Ages born again
reviver of dragons mountebank of miracles
three drops of my own blood in the snow
and I was the woman I was the lost Christ
I was the ship to Marseille and the cave in the Vaucluse
I was the stone he stepped on
I was the crown on the soft hair of his head.