Here, I’m walking through a garden. There, beyond this rough-leaved rose hedge, you cry. Lost child, I can hear you from the other side of the horizon, the other side of night. I call you lost even though you’re held, for who can say the man who holds you is your family? All I have to hear you with are these eyes, that photograph. The dark red petals at my feet have been blown down by a storm; the blood running into your eyes fills mine with tears. Who would gouge a small boy? Who would be glad his blood fell, spotted the street, scattered it with iron-scented petals?