She dreamt of beautiful things and wondered what’s to be, who’s to know and what’s to see. She took a rocket through the skies, and the stars streamed and planets twirled, oceans opened and swallowed worlds. From high above, she fell hard to earth, beneath the cloud and Wordsworth. This world too much, she said to him, soon and late: for mischief and madmen to trip the gates and send us hurling through space and time, head over heels and eyes shut tight, out of step and out of mind. She pulled the horizon like a rope, and wrapped it twice around a Cypress tree, and left the gun where it was found, silver and cold and the barrel ground. Along the slow drawling river, all night and early morning, she sang the blues to ravens, silver dollar bracelets shaking, while around her hearts and beats and levees breaking.