Give us an incisor, and we’ll rationally conjecture an entire prehistoric head, to the glint in its eyes and in the light along its scaled skin —but first, we need that tooth, that seed
I swim in his beard diving deep my breath giving out quickly in spite of all I know to do, all that he has taught me, my Merlin, he has schooled me in the things of the pot—the dragon’s blood and the mistletoe and the black willow—he has...