Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read br Beneath the innocence of morning flesh br Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed. br Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh br Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands; br The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland, br Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen br That may be hers appear: foul, lingering br Death in certain war, the slim legs green. br Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting br Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel br Bride of a syphilitic or a fool. br These speculations sour in the sun. br I have no daughter. I desire none.