Love has branched, an unruly poem -
the moon has dwindled in its clutch.
Soggy, cracked, it hijacks our eyes -
yellow leaves, we're carried
to its hollowness.
There's a storm, a storm,
swiping the time away,
sweeping us like dust
into the aperture of our Universe,
the moon.
Are we going to settle two gypsies,
laurelling the wind
with our being?
Cut, bent, tilted and torn,
coloured, looted, wilted, shorn,
will we be shamed (tamed) into beauty?
Our souls are being pared
by the spades of separation -
maybe we are to meet in transit?
Two stems singing a design,
too simple to be true.
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