He courted Heart’s Desire, wooing, and
she, with full knowledge of what she was doing, fell down
into the down of his Cupid wings, insipid, insouciant,
implacable things, unfortunate pillows of delight
that as easily reassemble and take flight
leaving in eventuality, that complacent virtual reality,
a bland astonishment; the sad recognition of boredom,
the unromantic moments that misconstrue time.
Tending the garden, i slice my finger on a spade
my blood flows bright enough to decorate
the graying hour. Instead of ardor,
duty speaks, contains like a vase
the cuttings which will no longer
wilt in their ground.
Some i dry and keep around, reminders of
roots that grow deep somewhere,
pilfered by that sly scoundrel with his bow.
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