poem #8 under the hot red sun

red ranunculusUnder the hot red sun

of a dirty Los Angeles street

you fingered your way

one sudden bleat

my heart closed into the silence

and love would not repeat

one sudden beat

the sodden pleasure you took

in heat, my street a highway

full of tossed petals

the bloody heap

you made of love

so every poem made of you

I burnt them in a hot red pyre

a heart’s quiet slipstream, a winding gyre

you ask about the love you killed

there are no answers for what you spilled

there is only silence where the heat of love

made a wreckage of the dove



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