Trite

Accusations revolve in me
like the cogs of a clock working
backwards:
You are a coward and
a liar,
a man without tact.

Where you are,
damp foliage waves accusations,
drips honey-water,
taps you on the head whispering,
"The sunrise hates you."

For the first time I
feel the thickness of my
coffee spoon,
as I swirl in cream,
watch the bubbles pop,
or become heavy and sink,
and I am sad
and it is meaningless.