Personal Grimoire


To think of fairies not so much as dreams

And children’s wings, dust adrift on sunbeams,


As towering trees, crooked-branched and sly,

Drawing close to the water like their prey:


Not all the fey have wings. The same, I suppose,

Applies also to angels, and to us.


Of all the monsters I have met, not one

Has dwelt beneath my bed: I’ve seen


Not one true ghost who was not slave to drink,

Or more self-haunting than they haunt on us;


None of those red-eyed boys who kissed my neck

And drank my blood were lifeless to the touch.



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