Turtle Goddess
she of the hard shell
soft underneath
awaits enormously
in a dark grotto
the young Heroes—

Then the corridor
of booths—in each
Life enshrined in
veils of light, scenes
of bliss or
dark action.
Honey and fog, the nose
confused.

And at the corridor’s end
two steps
down into Nothing—

The film is over
we’re out in the street—

The film-maker’s wife grieves and tells him
good-by for ever, you were wrong,
wrong to have shown the Turtle Mother.
The darkness
should not be revealed.
Farewell.

Maker of visions
he walks with me
to the gate of Home and leaves me.
I enter.

Mother is gone,
only Things remain.

So be it.