We are stalking through Koln,
hurrying to meet Harel.
Sierra flirts with aubergine tights.
Belle-skirted above – hybridum ‘Voodoo’ –
she has Cabareted, gorgeously,
her auburn hair assimilating skyline.
She is smiling – Madonna-mysterious.
Has the angel been, Sierra? I think,
Harel is feral. Byronian.
He has ordained our entertainment begin here –
at the base of the Dom, in the vast square
where angels and gargoyles flaunt for euro
It is why we are here.
Harel’s artist’s eye detects inflection.
A change. A transformation. But… he holds up a pausing hand.
Ahhhh. A shift, a sharpening of light
Harel sweeps head back, hooooowwwls, primordially.
My skin tries to creep, leave bones.
I am trill-thrilled-shrill.
Across the Rhine another feral wolf answers him.