Monday in the park we
purchased Messiaen chirps about
nothing and watched a red kite
lying still on the grass

it was a puppet-show to my past.

After such long last breath
-caught in throat-
full moon eyes
waiting for puppet master to leap from the guise
I saw instead an onion child
tugging his layers uncomfortably
(like a Christmas turtleneck)
pulling threads
counting minutes

you're a tiresome genius,
my pretty pianist.

Half decade to pine
over songs you
half professed to be mine
full dance card, empty wine.

The daisies said yes, you know
but I've far greener grass in my garden to sow.

The thimble is tossed. I love you... not
Go on, cryptic darling,

sing softly your loss.