Dead, dead, dead, dead.
A beast of the Middle Ages
stupefied in its den.
The hairs on its body—a woman’s—
cold as hairs on a bulb or tuber.
Nothing so bleakly leaden, you tell me,
as a hyacinth’s dull cone
before it bulks into blueness.
Ah, but I’d chosen to be
a woman, not a beast or a tuber!
No one knows where the storks went,
everyone knows they have disappeared.
Something—that woman—seems to have
migrated also; if she lives, she lives
sea-zones away, and the meaning grows colder.