the drugs
don’t do a thing
but make the
depression
more pliable
hiding in
a shaded spot
the shadows
of leaves swaying
seem razor tipped
sawing slowly
through the
dappled windshield

i was nothing
more than a gnat
annoying the
fickle heart
of sweet love
now i am a smear
on the back of
her shapely hand
vivisected by
the shifting shadows
emptied out except
for wriggling blowflies
squirming in the
corpse of hope