Deadheading

removes the faded face
from the flowers:
a mask for a cycle.

You say unworn skulls are defective,
but I tell you, they smile even in death.
The maw gapes

for meal or murder, sigh or scream.
Necessity is the mother
of stop signs and duskfall.

At the cliff peak, all change is decline.
The snow is muted in hue,
faded in shade. We cross streams
to pluck flowers for graves.