Three short lines and one word set off to the side are enough to stage a cosmic love triangle. In "tides of love," signed Fallen angel, the moon courts the sea, the sun turns up uninvited, and the poem ends by naming what follows: jealousy. Its central idea is that love is rarely a closed circle between two. It is a field of forces, and wherever one attention is drawn, another is likely to feel its absence.
The first line borrows its tone from a very different world. "The moon is responsible" sounds like something from a meeting or a courtroom, where someone is being held to account. Yet what the moon is responsible for is "courting the tides," a phrase from old-fashioned romance. The mismatch is quietly funny. It also makes the moon's pull on the sea feel both charming and slightly culpable, as if devotion this steady were a kind of offence. The tides become the beloved, rising and falling in answer to a distant admirer, and the whole relationship is shown through movement rather than description.
Then the poem turns on a single "but." Up to that point the sentence moves calmly, like the ocean it describes. "But hear comes the sun" breaks the mood with the chattiness of someone announcing a latecomer at a party. The spelling is interesting. "Hear" is almost certainly a slip for "here," but if it is a slip, it is a productive one. It makes the line sound like gossip, something to be listened for, and it turns the speaker into an onlooker who is whispering the news. I would treat that reading as an inference, though. The poem gives no other sign of whether the spelling is deliberate.
The construction is spare. Everything is lowercase and there is no punctuation at all, which gives the poem the hushed, offhand feel of a thought half-spoken. Counting syllables gives roughly seven, five and five. That is close to haiku but not quite, and the shortened last line makes the sun's arrival feel abrupt, as if the poem were cut off mid-scene. There is no end-rhyme. Instead the poem relies on softer echoes, such as the long vowel of "moon" and the hissing s sounds in "responsible," "tides," "comes," "sun" and "jealousy," which give the lines a whispery, tidal wash.
The final word is the cleverest piece of design. "~jealousy" sits far to the right, detached from the stanza, and it begins with a tilde, a symbol that looks like a small wave. It works as a signature, a caption and a punchline at once, and the sea imagery runs right through it. Because it stands apart, the reader has to decide what it belongs to. It could label the sun's motive, the moon's reaction, or the feeling of the watching speaker. The poem never says who is jealous, and that open question is where its interest lies.
The astronomy underneath adds irony, whether or not the poet intended it. The sun does tug at the oceans, though less strongly than the moon, so its jealousy is the envy of the weaker influence. The moon also shines by reflected sunlight, which means the rival is the source of the lover's glow. A reader who knows this can see the triangle tightening: the moon's romance is lit by the very figure who resents it.
Nothing reliable is known to me about who Fallen angel is, so I will not guess at a life behind the poem. The signature can still be read as part of the text. If it is a chosen name, it sits well beside a poem about envy, since a fallen angel is a figure defined by rivalry and loss of place. That is a suggestion, not a fact.
What makes the poem worth studying is how much it does with so little. It personifies the sky, sets up a relationship, introduces a rival and names an emotion in under twenty words, and it leaves enough unsaid that readers can fill in their own triangle. For students, it shows that compression is not the same as simplicity. A well-placed "but," an odd choice of "responsible," or a tilde can carry the weight of a whole story.