Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read Beneath the innocence of morning flesh Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood.
Parched years that I have seen That may be hers appear: foul, lingering Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
These speculations sour in the sun.
I have no daughter.
I desire none.
