The Fourth Day

A day of restraint. She finds
her way down coiled staircases
that lead her to storerooms of
priceless plate; brocades and
silks; dust-mantled Madeiras.
Back at ground level, she slants
her perfect profile down — light
on her brow, her satined breasts,
her hands — to read the missive
he has laboured at so long
to make look casually
refined — lots of loops, no blots.
The wide ocean is before
him as he writes. His next shipment
is due at any moment.
Doctor X has applied his
legendary potion — with
what salubrious results…
(The trouble is, with this Mouse,
Hawk can't guess what she'll do next…)
Behind her head, a map of
unknown territory, each
river a lightning strike on
parchment. Tendril-fingers brush
chill stalks of metal: but wait.