The Eighth Month

Eight times the eye of the
White Goddess has opened and closed
on my ignorance of your visage.
Winking to entice,
or turning blankly in a coma,
restrained by almost uncountable laws?


Eight times the rabbit has
hopped clean across the heavens,
striking the affection in my fingers numb,
with a cold breath of night.
Fecund hare,
or snow glazed figurine,
frozen novice in a deadly snair?


Eight times the old woman has
rocked her chair to and fro across the
fields of night, while I sat
tending the fires alone.
Dreaming up stories for grandchildren,
or prepairing a reciept for a
potion of eroticide?


Eight times the haggard man has
rolled his face from side to side
on the ebony platter,
obscuring the light that drips from my seeds.
Waiting for the harvest of starlight,
Or passed out in drunken
neglect of Pan?


Eight times the silver dragon has
apread the blood of maidens across
the holy meadow, leaving me in
innocence of your touch.
Gaurding sacred treasure,
or disporting most unseemly
with that old wanton, time?


Eight times the god Sinn has
provoked my inner longings,
leaving my yearnings dissatisfied.
Teaching temperance,
or the cobwebbed duplicity of
the passionless vice?


Eight times the unicorn has
pranced through the turning gate,
carrying the messages of my desire.
Delivered to the lap of
good nature,
or lost along some fruitless
trail of waste?


Eight times the High Priestess has
passed through the doors of her
four alters, wrapping your voice in her viel.
Sighing for gentle penetration,
or the cold dry void of
material silence?