The blotted crow, the fat man through the clouds...the queen's head is a craggy sandcastle of towers.
But she's got raven's hair and a hood; she looks at us over the shoulder with rainbow eyes; she's got eyes of dervishes, lickshots, upturned palms...
You'd never have known if it was a phone or a guitar. And where are we now? The opal finger of blacksmoke is curling 'round the cup.
Dabne, Isis, Maggie, and Piano.
Leave the sheriff's men to search the river for the rest of it.
