There is a black river gnawing
at its banks, I feel the hunger
threatening to consume me. 
I am anxious to offer it something,
a bridge of fire, a skin canoe with a
bed of moss. These crooked hands
can not pull straight the memories
that slipped into the dark. But my knife
is true as the song of Haros and as sharp
as the first point of the moon. 
There are lovers who wander near
lost in each other’s eyes; what could be
sweeter than the blood of lust spilled
into your churning maw. Now let me
pass to seek what I might find.

.