That the sorrel’s now full in its bed,
the lavender, thyme, the forget-

me-nots, all of a blueness
and greyness, the sage,

hearsease, artemisia. That the spider,
bright white, its dew-flecked

Assassin’s Gate, stretches stalk to stalk.
This she tells me and more—

that wild parrots have nested
in the palm, mice in the ivy,

and at each cardinal point
a kind of murderous calm.