One dove, two crowns.

When the lonesome dove flies
above the labyrinth, she will come
to bring you the crown
of fire, brother I will
weep for you when she comes
to give me the crown
of air.  The key that dangles
from her wrist will unseal
the books wherein are writ
the notes to play upon
the library organ to call
up the water & the earth.

Red & white hommunculi
will waltz the in the vessel
when the apples are red
& ripe & still the labyrinth
will twist farther into
the distance.  Your
dopplegänger will
weep, forgotten on his shelf,
blowing his nose in the
monogrammed kerchief
she left when last she visited,
cursing him to live his last days
so hunched & wizened,
& him cursing you in turn
for failing to learn
the lessons he's put forth
before you.  She shall
play the chord no longer
secret & it shall be displeasing
to the many lords
& ladies who will be assembled,
& yet you will sit
condemned to this schoolboys'
tiny red stool & you shall not
move to intervene.  Still
she is redolent of heady perfumes,
eucalyptus & peppermint
& just a hint of an ex-girlfriend's
patchouli.  From the secret folds
of her robe, she feeds you
a single salted caramel.
Later she might read to you mockingly
from your well-hidden copy
of Fanny Hill that she's
just discovered behind
the elemental runes you hired
an army of Wiccans to carve
into your mantel.  & then the dam
will break, floodwaters washing away
the farmlands, uprooting even the labyrinth
until the earth finally pushes forth
its burdens for her, a fool's gold
you've birthed in the summers
of your boredom.

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