CINERARIA Migrant bird spear, the wall flown over long ago, the branch above the heart white already and the sea above us, the hill of the depth enleafed by the stars of noonday— a poison-empty Green like that of the eye she opened in death ... We hollowed the hands to scoop the oozy torrent: the water of the places where it’s dark and the dagger is handed to no one. You sang a song too, and we wove a lattice in fog: maybe a hangman will still come and make our heart beat again; maybe a tower will roll over us still, and a gallows will raise the roof; maybe a beard will disfigure us and her fair hair turn red ... ‘The branch over the heart is white already, the sea over us.