May Poem

this is the ground where the seedlings lay.

here Cupid pisses on them and makes roses bloom

for the boys to carry to their girls.

the thorns are sharp, drawing blood from bare fingers

as the waters wash away the fragrant smell

from the garden.

there's a stretch of barren land

where two eyes ponder the happenings in the soil

in which these love-buds lay:

over the hills there is silence

as the bushes break the surface of the land.

this is all we can hope for

from a deadly arrow and a stream of earth-water.