that bloated ghost
is a floater who boasts
the palest eyes in the kingdom of green
mine are alive and I pause
in the memory of the Boleyn-Tudor legacy
how Ann would have lost her sallow
head again to view her daughter as aged
ill-tempered harridan. I lose sight and sound
of continent: old worlds turn new then await
an alchemy.
that sweet-tart instant before
the sword descends. Friends and foes
scatter, dandelion dust, yet Marie est malade,
and one ought to invest: reams and skeins of Rumplestiltskin
gold. I admit.
There was never a Veronique at that court—no truth
to abort.
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