I promised fidelity, briefly
wearing nothing at all. In my garden,
there are thorns that prick the soul.
How true are flowers? False
as rivers straighten then coil;
nature being the perfect whore. Lovely
for a season, then, winter-dead.
You've known of treachery before:
your earnest prayers unanswered
or the body fails before it wants to.
No comments:
Post a Comment