The newborn roses taint the thorns
Charitably lending beauty to yourself.
Your eyes, your lips, your body,
A meeting of borrowed stars and necklaces
Upon dark and muddied water,
Brought up at last to testimony
As the jury lies in your luminous grass
And the judge's children play in your trees.
I myself, having only a Bible-pressed flower
And a blue waistcoat you bought me long ago
Rest tirelessly in the shade of your ego,
Contentedly savouring the aftertaste of experience
If not satisfied by the pyre of false love
Put to death at last by black and harrowing flame.

Lend me a cigarette, for I have a light
And the shore is not too far from here.
I will walk alone where once we sat
But for now, continue my rest
Bathing in the shards of memory
That stab through the gaps between your leaves.
Do not think me a wanderer;
For I am rarely comforted by attention
But remember me, perhaps
When your gardener has neglected you
And alcohol falls no longer among the roots
Which sieve the once-rich soil for water
But find only the salt of my old tears,
Forsaken in the happy honeymoon of our divorce.