The Garden

His eyes black as night hooks
His eyes black as solemn nickels
And to be spent
Perversely

On treats
Poked and prodded
Prayed from the gripping hands
Pried by means
Rough like shoddy tendrils
Of the beggar
Or the mercenary
Of the wino turned soldier
Of dubious fog and haze

He seeks non-combatant
Non-committal
Well turned flesh

White mooned orbs
And a gaze like death
Corseted to her cheeks
A rosened hue
Of chalk and fear

And brings a suddenness
Intended to escape memory

It seems the foreboding nature
Of this sidewalk itself
Causes her stoop
That mimics a sway
That shakes her hips
Like battleships

And in his mind
It has become a war
It is his call
His strike
And beyond his command