Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

I Shall Go Up And Down In My Gown. Gorgeously Arrayed, Boned And Stayed.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.