Hoverdose
Your dying in this moth-meandering way
Just might destroy me more predictably
Than if you pressed your earlobe (with a plea
For ultimate commitment) to the stray
And curly strands of sideburn by my ear,
Then pulled a trigger at your other cheek
To blow a bullet through our brains. The bleak
Alternative is much the same as sere
Autumnal gardens offer butterflies
That linger in haphazard, hovering flight
Above the dead-head poppies while the night
Of Indian Summer frosts in toward their eyes.
To loiter in drugged evenings wastes the wings
And piecemeal deaths are not awakenings.