Auto-Response re: Pastoral

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Nature no longer cares

to stand for childhood

or anything else you’ve

lost and still moon over.

Boiled degree by deadly

degree, it has dying to

attend to, and so sends

regrets, isn't available

to serve as metaphor of

fleeting loveliness, can’t

supply bees to flit near

a lover’s downy cheek,

henceforth, is simply its

beleaguered, brutal self —

worms twisting bones

of your first pet, heron’s

steps that flush minnows,

a heavy rain of camellia

blossoms. In a pond far

off your path, its newts

spawn, churning water.