Rhyme Thing

I had hopes the sparrow would devour
green finch in mid air,  
its small wings nursed by a curdle before flaw,  
gasping in the half-there,
 
brains intact her body cascading,
wine at the picnic, your eyes on my dress
and we repress the need to lose selves
in each others lack of finesse.
 
I wonder if you heard
the roses have been leaving her,  
wet no longer alluring,  
a June penalty incurred.
 
And I heard you won't venture here,
your heart too full of sleepless sin,  
and I won't venture there, ever destined
never to begin
 
but again I hear your voice in song,
a landslide before my penning  
and have old hopes, old town dreams
drunk upon such longing.