Fruitless Mulberry

leafy exhortations
clinging in gray mothwings fluttering
against your bare
shoulder.

opiate eyes
caressing, opalescing, into an
infinity of mesmirizes.

twinned,
awaiting the impatient sigh of morning,
he hopes
for a happy ending
and ends up
with a basketful of
french-fried cliches.

the fishing-pole
is broken.

Author notes

This is the first thing I've written in a while. Been ill. Sort of a distillation and compilation of all the things that tumble around in one's head being ill side by side with one's lover for two full weeks, plus smoking cannabis in the bathtub with him just a few minutes ago and reading an article about mountaintop removal. Disgust wars with contentment. My username is intoothandclaw.