Across the sands of all our dreams
what fertile water westwards streams,
followed by the sun's flaming sword,
Poseidon, take good care, oh watery lord.

She trudges, drags and shoves her load,
Early sunrays opening her throat.
A tide so moondrawn in her wake,
while furious waves the silence break.

Blood not mine, a wine-dark sea at noon,
behold the handmaid of the moon.
In sleep the wet signs call her hour,
bid her arise, bed of death, ghost-candled flower.

He comes, the palest vampire,
his eyes through storm and fire,
his bat sails bloodying the ocean's bliss.
Mouth to his mouth's kiss.