Today the world’s Van Gogh smoke and my heart is a raisin. I listen to Schubert’s Goethe’s Erlkönig and sizzle, anxious unto urchins. An elf in my lung spits into my birthday cards. Blue silk hydrangeas loom over my right shoulder; mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh’ es genau, es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau… And yet, I can find no sturdy evidence of a curse.   Radiation at background levels, buboes numbering none. I open my mouth and a ball of mosquitoes rolls out like a dandelion’s head, Medusa diffusing. Thunder’s rubber aspect, the way it cups the heavy parts and rattles the corals. Gastropod,  borrow the shed chiton of this bitter oath, live your empty life, sentry of the shallows.