Who would’ve thought
that what’s left of chalk in silhouettes
could ever love a mud- 
encrusted wedding veil

And hanging life, like gardens
in a different time,
were once bouquets, dry aging
once more, withering.

Déjà vu’s the spice of life, for now,
though frittering its relapses, again.
when litter starts to sell the world a memoir,
it's funereal, with every single tide.