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Saint Mary locked in the moon
faced mirrored in mushrooms
swart in the time of the toad
silver when the casket opens
Saint Mary baked in the moon
white hot heart like day behind the winter glass
the midnight sun stands in his shambles,
"chaos . . . dreaming . . . alone . . ."
Twelve times one holds the gate
while seven lifts the bright sword.
Saint Mary crushed in the moon
bleeding mercury bullets to the bone.
Steel in the skull, gold in the heart,
moisture in the palm of one hand.
Over the moon,
Saint Mary gates the flood.
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