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Circe 429
A fence must be white
to keep in sin
but something is lost along the way
we are a league of fireeaters, we who
wash our marks against the unknown
we are likely to eat poisonous things
we who slip past the columns of tonight
who, infected with mercy, ask for directions
ask for regard
but receive rags instead
we swerve to miss the beggar
the evil eye
the bone at midnight
the first likely place to lay down and finally die.
we wash away the world and are left with only the eyeless beasts
the hatted refugees of mercury
the bloom of the brain
the twin-headed spy who will
ask us where we live.
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