Always the wretched fly buzzing in the ear,
Drenched with the sharp thrill of guilt
And hummingbirds on hidden strings
Whispering to Tiresias, the voyeur,
Hiding blindness but watching the crossroads
And the tangled reins in the dirt.
Then the sweet warm taste of blood
And to be king, for a day.
Afterwards the wandering,
The daughter leading the way,
Empty sockets stinging from salt tears.