I hear you in magical, howling waves.
As though howling at me,
I remember standing in your circular hall, situated in front of one of twelve windows. I could only see eleven.
Just as I k/now-sees your strange, blue table has only three legs,
Æ believe twelve is your number.
I fell for the Baker and his dozen of thirteen and thirty one.
These I found in your thirty six chambers (the dirty version).
What of the power of inaction?
I have seen it. I am re enlivening the power of actions.
Asserting my attention so that it becomes attuned to
My intent to action.
What of your golden cauldron and collar?
The triple obelisk etching adorning the table
and, your fine robe.
The position of your fingers.
An empty hand and a bespoke hand which
furls, clasping like a talon.
There shines the indigo light
about the crown of your skull, wild one.