The beast of the beast of the mouth
of the beast was a turn-flower.

How was I to know what was rupture
from the good yarn the basilisk still
with her poison in the tumbling after-days.

I was a house.
I was a witch.
I brewed immense amounts of coffee
for immense men who thwarted the siren-veil
and collapsed into chimney heaps of hay.
I loved all of them, I said
as they were taking me away into burying ground
beyond the potato root all objects made
permeable by the sneeze.

I was undressing while I did my time;
laundered the aftermath with its cotton yellow and peppery snot while I did my time.
I am waiting for some ordinance to (what is the law even) come save me—
an oven, my dancing shoes, love the disputed tar.
I came to milk and I was dissolving I dissolved.