I have no need to read the Herald.
I knew it all yesterday.

Coffee grounds,
Tea leaves—
None of these I require to know.

Truths pour from my lips like foam over the rim of a glass.
Yet, my words encounter no belief.

Trust was taken from me in the thrust of hand under skirt,
and the heat of breath against cheek.

High priestess of the unheeded, I sit amongst you,
Waiting for Troy to burn.

Apollo’s spit lingers in my mouth, and I cannot get it out.