The original root
where scent of swamp and foulbrood meld–
I stare into the orchestra pit and see the woodwinds catching spare light
like bayonets pointing at the
proscenium.
She appears, transfixed, possessing the sine–angled, she breaks her ragged beauty like a crow exploding into day.
I will never wait again, again is done:
Behold the Malatrix.
