Grendel the man-scathe
climbs from the dark, wet below
into my heart, my head;
fills my limbs with his weight:
his head breaks the moon on the mere
into a scatter of pieces of silver.
The footsteps of the Minotaur
echo in my inner labyrinths,
familiar with their pathways.
And sometimes your head is crowned
with angry serpents,
and you turn men into stone.
Full of sad appetites,
we wait for our redeeming heroes.