They pronounced her dead or
monarch of the underneath being

fragments of damp twigs, shards of
broken stones and blind auburn worms;

no wonder blue flowers grow thick
in the place where her heart lived.

Now the light remembers her like
blossoms in the depth of winter

or bright-winged birds fallen into
tiny heaps of bone and feather.

Life above, the emptied just below,
the raging blood, the yielding soil;

on a summer's day it's impossible
to separate sweetness from the bitter.

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