Floating, floating on a leaden store;
roping, roping the corrugated shore.
Lyla leaps from the raft and sends her craft
swiftly back to lee, to sink in the drink
leakily.  To the steel bank her boots stick.
She looses the tank, feels her toes and feet
sigh in relief, then marches off to meet
the one who lives in this land replete
with daft imagery.  He was a thief
in uniform, who tried to steal command
in form that he'd long possessed in fact.
She seeks Zod, exiled to Zon to stand
nowhere alone, Lord of an empty tract.
He will know the geography
of this mystic rift in space,
will take her to the transition-place,
if she breaks down his martial shell,
turning her cheek to his first slaps.
So, at least, she has been told.
She steps lightly along,
lying low to keep her advantage
of surprise, and to keep herself bold.
Happen on him, stealthy creeper,
before this subplot gets old.