ALEXANDER KUSHNER'S FATE

Clocks spin their hour
geography on a map
you find a flower
under the cover
of a field
for a lover's lap
but she is taking a nap
full of sleep
you leave off a poem
wild roses at her door
but another
woman of the night
you wouldn't call her
a call girl whore
discovers the flower
and walks off with it
and uses it as an object
as a lure for
another poor
but mute poet
lost and tongue tied
who only asks for love
and afterwards died.