Little flower of Hell, where the clear creek
runs.
Woodwind reeds grow on the Styx, in soil
of blood.
I go a witching down in the brine, digging
a stick through the mud.
Golden fish gleam, alight in the stream.
I am a woman of mud.
Whipporwill Therese, I have no King,
only lovers I left in the lane.
Two pence a heartache, three pence a
distaff, the run of my fiber is blood.
Hardcore, recoil, my skirts are a gun.
I go where the wild fox runs.
Two score and twenty days I died long ago –
I cannot do this without you.
So I reach out my hands, my lustful green hands
to catch on the penny inside you.
But Devil, you are quick, and Devil, inside me,
I'm gutting myself like a blind man.
Give that blind man a knife, that blind man a wife,
and the Blind God does not kneel before me.
This knife is my time, a giver of rhyme,
