Sonnet

I know that my profile will be serene

in the north of an unreflecting sky.

Mercury of vigil, chaste mirror

to break the pulse of my style.

  For if ivy and the cool of linen

are the norm of the body I leave behind,

my profile in the sand will be the old

unblushing silence of a crocodile.

  And though my tongue of frozen doves

will never taste of flame,

only of empty broom,

  I'll be a free sign of oppressed norms

on the neck of the stiff branch

and in an ache of dahlias without end.