If you cut
A tree
You cut
Your own mother

I sit
At your petals
And cry
For you
Not for me
Who you have become
A beautiful flower

Black smoke on the mountain
bends over the moon like flies
around rines all fed up
with the night, like a bloated
face floating by in the river
sleeping through
death's long montage,
that dark mistress sipping
gin on a balcony with no wind,
her curtains still as a blanket
placed over the drowned.

The raindrops
that slide on glass windows
remind me of your tears
pure and intense
uncontrolled and dense
as they strolled down your rosey cheeks
when you told me
you love me
under the sheets

Problem with today's love is,
there are two souls involved