In a glint of red candles and throat pleatsthe house feels composed. White chrysanthemumrevolution. The starling’s black bill turns yellowin the spring, fake bird of paradise.I had you living beside me, a young saint,glorious cub of the household. I inventeda sister for you, named Paula, her possible soul,our eternal possessions, our digital perpetuity.Sometimes our concern with moonrise,its insistence on midsummer and midwinter,is like a detail of a burial of any unsettled soulsin a sea of electrified language, dashes of limeon the wall itself. The smoke-grey coatof a lacework’s of death—mavrone, for me,there is no after the war, the rain of an earlier day,the balmy elsewhere of winglets past the flowersin their rifles. The diet was so poor, men’s voicesdid not break till they were twenty, not really believingwhat they knew. And every time I turn on an electriclight I believe that love, The Orchid Hotel, South Flower St.While she was rooted to her bed along braidedpathways I saw an advertisement that the mountainwas for sale, frost wedging extra virginitywoven around the dark nutmeg seed.She is buried with herbs of love, ghost fishing.The sound of one’s footsteps start to fade,the stairs feel as if they descend further than they do,or feel like a room in themselves, an afterthought.