The wingéd girl shakes her feathers
in a heavy English fog
wafting like perfume
from a flattened rabbit in May.
She’s a medical student
who sings of traipsing through hell.
Today there is not anywhere a war
and Henri has sculpted the sky.
Castle Altaforte rises
like a whoreson dog’s bark.
The wingéd girl licks her wings.
Eve's Apocalypse 