Louche pearls beading above the
blades, clinging to the
minarets above the grass.
Such myriads of bejeweled ghosts
reflected in their curving caps,
do beetles rest their weary shells upon these
turrets? Or metallic moths mope below the shade?
Twilight trickles in
and their trunks recede,
dissolving into umbrous
pools; disease running rife.
His fingers upon my cheek,
Grass tangled masses in my hair.
A disheveled foliage upon my scalp:
"You asked me to"
bitter pellets of malice on the tongue
as he leaves me in the undergrowth
with the despondent
corpses beside me.