Becoming Unaccustomed to the Garden

A tatter to resist coup de foudre—
Who owns the paperwork to the villa
That waits in its ruins, barely a shell?

Not you, but you keep the tale company,
Lightning-struck lovers abandoned by wealth.
Lumpen flesh holds what words left to collect.

The black ghost cat prowls the empty table.
Blink and it disappears. Lovers were here.
Funny application of an old word,

Love, a cobweb of a thing you can’t name,
Via negativa until the gate,
And then two people stepping through flowers,

Which it appeases them to do. Good luck
Pulling together the theme of a world.