Coda

Never any real end to this.
Can she triumph by moral force,
turn the tables, and reshape this
castle so it's full of dead ends —
each tunnel staunched by a stone wall;
gallery, bedchambers, hall, swept
by unadulterated light?
And no long-memoried key to
gush like a severed artery?
Or will she simply walk through those
opened gates and keep on walking —
the mother-of-pearl moon her guide
through a forest where owls caress
darkness with magician's-cloak wings.
Whatever she may choose, he will
always be there: pretend sovereign,
legs planted wide on the top step;
or phantom waiting in the wings;
or dog crouching to lick her heels
while slipping eyes mask other dreams.
Confront, withdraw — then head for that
rustling dark. At some point, turn to
gaze at that castle built on sand,
its ragged turrets, moat of blood.
The moon is lost in trammelling
cloud, breaks clear — divesting itself
of pearl, letting the darkness eat
into its substance so it can
reach nothingness, begin again.