how do we cope with       seven years of bad luck,
sweating summer away, treating youth
like bittersweet apricot, unripe/or rotting,
when winter brings
our future’s eroded footprints
as clearly as if they were stamped      in fresh fallen snow?
    we are not ourselves: ruining things we love
    by becoming them.
making competitions of unblooming.     I love me,
    I love me not. love me,
love the parallel of armor & amour.
petals pirouetting/
metallic lace lining pistil/, pistol.
there is pollen under my/your eyes
& i/you are (am) allergic.