You are a leafy bent branch
tipped with one lugubrious plum,
plump, plumper.
I, like Tantalus, naked in the river
reaching for you, whether for safety
or for sustenance,
wanting another outcome,
a different footing, expectant
but expecting the same.
I grasp at the atmosphere, panicked, blind, frantic,
needing a fingerling of the faint impression
of your audible atoms
colliding with the giddy life of fruit.
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