Seven sanglant berries on a moon of mint. A suet-colored field
under a sky of plum and royal blue. The Gothic script
on the wanted posters broods at the entrance to the everlasting woods.
The Englishwoman who bore him knows the names
of every flower, makes of this knowledge a gift.
In his bones he feels the rising storms, a mountain range away,
blowing towards him their cold pure air, cold as death.
Cold as death and loneliness he lowers himself
down to sleep, monster dreaming among the flowers.