the temple of icthus

in a cold dilema
i churn
my teeth clatter
 my thoughts burn

whosoever printed this
 excrescence
has form

but her subtle temper
 must recognise all
who float there

kerosene windows
stained on her
vast
 interior intimate

a piscean choir
(in the dark)
 voicing a passion

it is rising from the deep
archaen roots
of Parnassus