I.
The twisting spindles
of nature’s Quenched Desire
poke angrily into her spine
with the fresh sharpness
of slaughtered promises.

The greasy aftermath smears love’s lips
with a reverse alchemy
of throat-to-chest explosions
that transmute her golden heart
into jutting spires of leaden remembrance.

II.
All that glistens
in this guilty-eyed
nightbloom of regret
is the ghostly remnants
of his now-blackened gift
of Sky Flowers.

(Yearning and fulfillment
break like two glass brothers
smashing into the strength
of each other.)

III.
Initially the blooms swirled and swelled,
splashing the skies with the boldly-uprising buoyancy of spring,
but now they have fragmented in anguish,
fallen to the earth like lodestone tears.

(Crushing terror
of finding yourself
in bits and pieces:
not knowing
what goes where.)