telling whom the words 
seeking the bull she came 

O beautiful fitted moonpool 
going not out nor in 
and water whirling 

her eye on a winding stair 
so far to follow a thread 
her many feet and so bare 

flickering lop-sided fingers 
lifting the lid of a little warm steaming 
sad wraith misting from earth’s rich pudding 
small healing for hungry men 

in the crack where the wind sits 
an empty pail rattles 
trees rain down words of warning 
one leaf rests on her naked thigh 

a sudden quicksilver runs 
after the fall there is no holding