In Wintersea when the winter heat drifts ashore the Degas in the Main Hall?
its white tutu thaws into a soft, milky froth
but the citizens must not ever speak of this for the newborns are always and still fast asleep and jealousy creeps and devours in every corner drip
drip dripping a metallic water
“and thou art dead, as young and fair” Lord Byron shouted into the fog but no one wanted to hear over the buzzing of flies vomiting on rotted meat the screaming pile of foul smelling letters the discordant noise in the shattering reflections
“Do you finally see?” the Hag pleads bearing her gray teeth through blackened lips her silver gown glistening on the synthetic sea the froth and foam bathes the Furies and The Crone.