Article: The nymphs, seeing Circe at the table. (poem)

Change, for nymphs, is essential. Here we eat clams in the sun, crack them in our hooves.

Our island is windy. We're raked by tropic weather. You sit at Circe's table, palms spread,

flaring like a sow. You snuffle for your dinner. Your sweet hands are more than she can bear.

They mutter toward her body the way ivy licks the walls ...

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