Are we now not on two different planes?
Hearing new songs in lay, in sideways  borograbes
By your feet too do these crisped, grey leaves scatter?
These humming autumn inscects remind me it doesn't matter

That shining floral fantasy is now merely fauna
I smother now the tinted leaved cantaluna
Can a buried flower blossom and grow?
I yearn not to care or know.

This old marigold once shimmered with light
Age and decay resisted any honest plight.
Henceforth I am the seed, waiting for the warm sun's yawn
These boyish locks now retire, waiting for a new man to dawn.