Every murder is a poem. Every poem is a confession. Cooper Reid was a poet of extraordinary promise. Now he sleeps in Boston's Public Garden and listens to the voices in his head, which speak to him in verse. About beauty. About loss. About blood. When a woman is found beneath the Weeping Willow with a poem tucked into her lifeless hands, a detective, a hungry newspaperman, and the woman who once loved Reid all begin circling the same question. Someone is turning murder into performance, and the poetry is signed in a hand Reid knows. He is asking it too. Did he write these murders, or only dream them?