the lady of the lake had twenty four arms. twenty three of them held signs for arts only meant to be represented through implicit painless iconography, and the twenty fourth held a rapier of steel fine as the string under soaring kites, cold as the solitude on a rain drenched night
peregrine falcons swooping in an arc wide as the crescent moon, and all your sadness is swept away in dense morning darkness and the unexpectedly invisible scent of frozen orchid pine bark and rust