THE CHANGELINGS.
And then there was Magdalena, the old dog star, above the fire-fly groves,pressed against the musk hills, quiet, verdant, and dusk mirrored bottle green,where the olives dropped like tropical hailstones into the copse,falling onto languishing nets, strewn about, dry trawl fishing the hillsides,the big Ole sun sits like an apostrophe' over the sea,waiting for the envelope of night to lie down for her, but then the changelings came,through the bell tower, with its winding staircase behind the church,I used to put my fingers in the locks as keys,and turn a thousand years of praying and kneeling in dust, under that midnight clear,standing on the top iron stair shouting at the distant sea,are all my fortunes lost in the void, like some collapsed byzantine Emperor,slash me, I'm a changeling, slash you, your a changeling too,meet me under the bridge of swan-light where the fires burn my lips,where the high clouds steal my thunder on the twilight breeze,as the river swims by beneath our bare feet, chocolate liquid and creeping,and when we had whisk-eyed ourselves, and fed milk to the Greek cats,we changelings crawled about, in our stupefying venomous elixir,and the digital stars were placed about heaven, mapped out above indigo Corfu,where the wild children run, in the eternal soft parade,and the covering moonshine turns all the red house tiles blue,we look through the cellophane windows, of the changeling house,slash me, I'm a changeling, slash you, your a changeling too.