Not a Paris gutter, not a slut her(e)
     where leaves cover immodest deeds f(r)iends’ hands
     pull out from under petticoats, water
     and fire the only two elements that
     matter bothers to call together with
          silent come-hithers and eager fingers

                    vagabond adventurers whose fingers
     her mundane lair attracts, laying (t)her(e) with
     them secrets sending shivers and shame that
     act as coordinates to what’s hid (t)her(e),
     not treasure, but a pact writ in water
          betwixt panthers and our planet, whose hands

                    and claws in the same river shake time’s hands
     whenever either poisons that water,
     ancestors whose vagrant descendants (t)here
     wander, flagrant children whose soiled fingers
     spoil æther, burning innocence so that
          once cleansed, oil will purify their sins with

                    wealth newly acquired, fire worshipped with
     fervour her heart(h) reserves for furor that
     spurning earth its respect warrants, fingers
     of roots knotted with knuckles her bruised hands
     will use to break men whose greed takes them (t)here,
          forsaking heritage by that water

                    ancient offer ordained sacred, water
     by mutual covenant once made (t)here,
     acknowledged evidence of what all hands
     and claws hold in common stewardship with
     one another, what together fingers
          and forests know is their same mother, that

                    goddess to whom the sun’s a b(r)other, that
     harlot’s chamber pot womb the moon’s fingers
     walk through the world’s origin, filling with
     whatever we put into her, water
     or light, love or life, clean or filthy hands
          the difference between what we leave her(e)

                    with, guilty consciences or minds lined with
                         knowledge that we kept our promise, water
                              collecting its due from those who drink her(e).