I dreamed I sailed alone down the river Hebrus to the island Lesbos where I found sudden love at the center of a liquid mirror that reverberated with the clear perfection of my face—sweet with angel grace, as done by the master hand of the world’s finest Victorian painter.
The morning sun behind me poured my shadow like honey over daisies sunning themselves in the eastern sky, and the dimension of depth seized the pink and blue clouds over me. While I watched, I strolled naked to the lakeshore where water nymph lovers made this beggar maiden their queen.
They presented to me Pandora’s wounded body in a blue world flashing with the decaying sounds of war, whereupon I ordered all sentries to burn their weapons and to lay Pandora alongside the head of Orpheus in the garden of Cupid where Psyche still waits for his kiss beneath a pregnant sky of stars ready to sprinkle down upon her bosom.
And I, around the weddings of children finally thirteen, tended Pandora’s wounds and forgave Apollo of his crime, healed all hearts and flesh of the blackness of a wicked church, and took away the hour that would be winter eating the earth forever.