This is the end of love the last star in the final sky’s crushed and scabbed rhythms
The nightingale’s claw tears the rose-lip to a night-stabbing rain’s chanted rhythms.
It will sing through its’ flesh’s surcease till only the spread-eagled voice remains
And song breaks apart free at last of the wilderness of the throats’ coiled rhythms.
No pieties for separation can hope to assuage this shame’s spent and infertile soil
What was fervent once is now only the serrate reverberation of unrequited rhythms.
The nightingale springs out of infinity’s manuscript to decree its calligraphic truth
The rose of beauty slouches petals plucked as if to a dervish’s maddened rhythms.
There they lie arranged at last the nightingale’s beak and claw the rose’s nether-lip
To another world’s eye this patterned ruin is but a dance of hologrammed rhythms.
