Wapun Meadow tears of blood

As if possessed Phocion's gaze turns toward them, no, through them, to things that are not here, to things beyond them. She recognizes that look, the half-crazed mask of holiness that once upon a time she'd ascribe to mysticism or genius. Now she wonders if it's not just a self-made frenzy even as she feels waves of grief crash through her. Tender night!

His story is not one she's heard of before, yet his voice rings like many she's heard, ringing nostalgic thought through tired veins, and yes, tonight is for mourning, she can drink to that. Poet lifts her head and cries to the moon, a long noise with beneath and night and breath hidden in the syllables. And the blood, oh, the blood: her eyes track the graceful movements of the sylph, slow to follow, but follow she does, paws heavy.

"In our bones," she calls softly, echoing Phocion's words, "my guilty bones." The rabbit is not her prize, no; the sinner lays herself before the priest, twisting to expose her throat, shameless in her display. If teeth or temperance greet her, she will accept, for even she does not know exactly what she asks for here. Her movements are feverish, the picture behind her eyes fleeting and obscure, blood and moon and forgiveness.