Yawn
No messages (or meaninglessly brief
Ones) make romantic oceans dry to salt.
The tree that first proclaimed a heart-shaped leaf
Withers. The swift-hoofed race comes to a halt,
The red stallion stumbling, breaking a leg.
The killing isn’t murder, too callous
For that. It doesn’t help to whine or beg.
Ignoring is a cool form of malice,
Assassination at a lazy reach;
No, cruelness as an indifferent blank.
He doesn’t love. What will it take to teach
You . . . yawning ammo blasted from a tank?
A silent lack of love smothers the stars.
He doesn’t care enough to plot your scars.