May gives way to September
And all fresh things fade.
There's a canker in the rose
And the tall grass is fragile.
The moon is bruised;
The sun, swollen.
Flowers cry when plucked,
Snapped stems bleed
And the harvesters' tools
Are perpetually sharp.
Here, where love is augmented
By mortality
I kneel in broken grass
And press wounded petals to my lips
Waiting for the gardener
To slide his shears along my nape
And cut my long, soft hair.
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