Little flowers in the meadow
Exchanging brief blushing kisses
And if you blink,
Even once, you will miss it.
The wind blows their chaste faces
In just the right way
As petals overlap
And intertwine,
Like grasping fingers
Destined for one another,

Or
At least they are
According to fate's cunning design.

It's spontaneous,
Instantaneous
Convergence of the stars,
And their hearts
Spiral down to the planet's face
In a plummeting
Fiery haze—

And they destroy.

In smoking craters they sleep
As one body,
One broken mass of
Tangled limbs,
As if it was their cradle.

At least they have each other.
They have themselves and
That is all.
To heal oneself
In another's arms,
And to throw oneself
Off the cliff face,

It is the same.
It is all the same.
And the jagged rocks below,
Of course,
The rocks below will be blamed
For the scarlet water,
The scarlet sands,
Slipping through the gaps between
Their white knuckles
And clasped hands
Still stained scarlet,

And the harlot
On the street corner,
In her little black dress,
The men who know her
Know her not
And do not care:

They only see the curls in her hair,
And the sway of her hips,
And the gentle movements
Of her deep red lips,
But they don't hear a word she says,
And do not care.