A Mozart Afternoon

Rather than beshrew with a stake drove

Beating through her immortal blood-welling heart

I took her uptown to a nosey French café

She sat fiddling with her crisp pale napkin

Under the checkered table cloth

And noticed not a thing

As they all looked past us among the mountain scenery

And the chef personally replenished her plate

Every thirty minutes  

She cared not for the garlic hanging 
Nor did I care for my course

Watching her suffocate in the grease and fat

Of a medium-rare she ordered thrice over

For by the opening of my parlor door

Her swollen complexion knelt to the ground

And oozed, a melted and defecated blob,

Upon my newly–waxed tiles 

All The World's Ephemeral

Everything you do is for someone else
It’s sickening
Said the bee 

The flower merely nodded in the wind
And the bee eventually 
Buzzed off

Months later the bee plumped back
To the same spot but the flower
Had wilted and froze under the pressure 
Of a fresh snow

It’s too late, 
It’s always too late for her

Hats On Faces In A Street

I feel sick like God
Every wax-wick figure blows and sways

Naivety On A Walk

Siberian foaming gurgles locked to the fount
Blue glass muffled gray
To tie my hands beneath the waning sun
Skin to peel silent when passers-by 
Look like snow-rotten flowers

Not Home No More

Chatter of clapping feet on rain
Wooden legs yearning trembling dresses 
Falling, shattering
His glasses empty 
Upon brunette floorboards 
Now all the same