Hangdog
head, hamstrung
heart, she bends to the faun-smelling
earth for the comfort of dirt.
Were there no
real demons
she could quickly decide on light.
Wind clicks,
shadows split
and spill
through quirky trees:
Glyphs and sigils.
Sigils and glyphs.
The sun in her blood is not enough—
she leans to heliopsis,
Lenten rose;
sinks her fingers into the soil,
taps a glassy surface.
Slowly, over the hour,
works a window
out of the earth.
Soap veneered to its panes
congeals the view.