Under a moon pregnant with light
The woman lay sick, poisoned by
Serpentine dreams, truth and lies
Alike, in wordless languages:

A yellowed old man, his belly strained
By the canvas apron of his trade,
Stood fast, weathering the storm of her:
A tool I need!, she cried, But which?

Clumsily he patted her with hands
Gnarled and trembling, branches
Buffeted by wind and rain and time.
For what?, he asked.

She bit her lip and tasted iron,
Leaned in, a good conspirator,
Whispered, To keep it all
At bay, a tool like that.

The man’s eyes, hooded by near
Epicanthal folds of age, trained
True (if weakly blue) on his customer.
All sold out of those, he sighed.