After William Blake

Harbinger of dread
your withered head
droops over my vase.
Grown from a garden
of love, you abide
now in the chapel
of death. Zoroaster,
my cat, nibbles your
wrinkled petals. How
your brief experience
extinguished your
innocence.

The little boy, cloaked
in chimney soot, who
brought you to us
is lost, now, to
churchmen in black
gowns, black as the ink
that coats my fingers
and imprints my
dear Catherine’s breasts.

We await the mysterium
of your return to the
garden. Oh revenant,
what angel will guard
your residence there?