You spread dry monsters on the pale flowers:
Cracked tentacles, calcified fangs, horns
and hides and pelts of hounds of hell and
Artemisian golden hinds, lined up beside
blinded cooling cyclops;
viper-tressed gorgons beheaded
and bagged, Scylla’s necks dragged out
of her crags and splayed against sprays
of heather and thyme, junebugs lapping
the sea-salt slime still damp on her teeth.
Herculean thief, even wildflower dusk
won’t mourn the husks you’ve laid out
against sprays of heather and thyme.