A night storm bristles in my eyes;
I step behind pressed lids
into the wake of a wind
that bends
but does not break
the arms of a ghost-fruited tree.

A startle of notes
comes from the chimes'
spider-footed, in disharmony'
And when the currents descend
something restless can be seen:
It slinks past the drooping beds
as the tune for the deflowered rings.

The air heaves high
and shrugs low;
White mulberries,
in plinkings of distress,
are sent from twisted boughs;
Blanched, they rest on damp earth,
scattering the grey remains of shadows.

Without fragrance or allure
they are as ones despised;
And so, their crinkled bodies retire'

Not to be consumed
within the plush folds of lips,
Not to be savoured
behind elation's smile'

They take their place
as seeping discard,
molested by the darting of flies.


Here, these pale fruits are falling
like such ashen-faced brides
that know no consummation
of their rightfully intended lives.

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