and the queen of the river is caught up in the clouds,
soaked with beautiful tears
and laughing to herself.
It's all real every word of it this story actually happened
she cried. But this is not about her.

It has been only a short time (to him) since he was freed
from his cubic prison by the worm-terror Hnhrenyhr.
Already he is cleansing his mistakes in the only way he knows.

Once in the sea his body is a feast to the lineocytes,
fragmented into a thousand triangles and line segments,
whorls of prismatic fluid approaching each other
like nerves.

At the boundary, Metatron drips off, leaving the flow (again)
renewed into the sky, fresh wings catching with a flap,
above the clouds, past the queen, below the clouds, into the rain
falling to earth.

She is dissolved and there is nothing to stop him.
The fires are doused but the ocean is pouring in,
and Metatron is down there, swimming serpentine
toward the capital.

The sun is drifting behind the clouds, and it is the eye
of the great lineocyte that is our world, suspended
in triangular plasma with the nautilus and plantoids and many-eyed.
It is all in the face of the great flower.

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