Moon in the hawthorn tree.

A griever rager in my humble giant backyard,

thumping around like a trooper, smoking

like a fiend, looking for the perfect spot

to dump all the love that hurts,

spitting on my garden soil—

graceful, grateful, and absorbent—even

the non-nutritious, then digging, penetrating

with a rusted shovel the belly

of marigold nature to bury

the good ol’ times—him and his lover—

in exchange for a piece of mind, taste

of blood, shadow of closure. Tonight,

I shed a tear for him

behind my closed window.