Some sunflowers. Arched over one another
in the big pot, like so many faces vying
for a view of the procession.
And the sea was there, though it hadn’t spoken yet,
so it was hard to tell what century it was
(had Mozart been born, the Alps crossed, the heart
cut open?) or if there were any thoughts
on the cruciform and the undeniable fact
only a human being could hammer another one
to a board. Just some sunflowers in a pot,
and a crowd of townspeople walking towards
the harbor (one looked like wood
and was raised above the others)
and the sea which had never spoken and held
no information in its mud-bearing heart
though every one was walking towards it,
gathered on a Friday in the hour of Jupiter
while the sun drank the water
with the dead quiet beauty
of ancient flyless days.