Under the Spanish bloom,
and beneath the perpetual sky,
a young boy walked with a girl.
She was struck by the beauty of it all;
the gentle breeze and the subtle ease
of the night. The boy was less pleased, though
and continued to stride, his pride effervescent
in the bland moonlight.

Under the winter bleached trees,
and beneath the star spangled sky,
the girl was alone now, crying.
She was hit by the sense of loneliness
that she found curled below the undergrowth
like the runt of a litter or an injured mammal.
She was injured now, that’s what she told
everyone else, anyway.

Under a spineless, leafless tree,
and beneath a white, all white sky,
a boy sits with a hole in his heart
and a gap in his speech.
It crumples up in him like
a poignant piece of painted cloth.
Like a prayer mat or something.