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).