SPRING BLOOMS

Two wounds,
etched by jet-planes,
on the buttery moon.
Signatures and strokes,
on my cascading gloom.
Puny earnestness dies,
beneath the spring blooms.
Were they gladiola?
Shrieking souls,
on cursed celluloid , and
rampaging silhouettes,
spell doom.
I swoon.
You croon.
Did the dog kill the meteor?