I love the deep end, said Lud.
His blue eye gazed down to tap upon the pane
of gray water.
My tower, said Lud, is the envy of all men.
Virgins turn away in terror,
go smiling up their sleeves.
So I am told and so I believe.
I nurse my regrets,
winding them on the plunge of my spoon,
find what delight I can in cold suppers.
When my queen comes to visit me
she rests her feet against the bedposts,
braces her glass hands
upon the carved necks of these,
our wooden swans.
She spreads her white thighs
and I am young again,
no memories to crowd my burning skull,
the future a golden island
shimmering for us offshore, offshore,
a thousand thrusts away.
My tower rises above this waste kingdom
like a threat.
White as death and built to last forever.