Leave it to Cleaver
I rest upon the havoc carried
in the wake of gloom, floating
forward soft above the surface of
swaying blades and silken spider hammocks.
I struggle for root, cleaving to the luck
of windbreak crashing earth.
but fate will leave me rolling
down the glimmered trickle of flooded
need, carrying me ocean,
to join the great seedling cemetery
and when I cross the salted threshold
I'll feel the downward thrust of fortunes cleaver
sever my chances of bloom, never to be
plucked by love, never to tickle the dainty breath
of damsels adored in cluster made of petals
worthy to die and dissipate and waft for queens.