Let me sing to you my memories,
those pretty, faded, paper shapes.
How do you like the fire contained
in one dark and inward-turning eye,
Or the sugary fog of winter?
Borne in
on the broken wing of a collared dove,
a silvery sliver of northern air.
Do you hold my love in high regard,
as high as the strawberry moon that winks down on Trafalgar Square?
I think not.
I will snip the heads off those hot house roses of yours,
one
by
one.