mulberry / eraser / cloud Alexis Patrascu White is the skin of my lover, I call him Snow, for he is the chime of death at summer’s door, he is the one with his icicle-fingers stuck in autumn, the perpetual fall. He, pale as mulberries before Pyramus, strings on the clouds his locks of purest pearl, they bead on the air like seafoam, lighter than feather and smoother than silk. My love, he wishes to erase the sky’s blues, to stop the melancholic songs of the footless birds, the ungrounded wings high above; how loathsome are tears to him— he stops them before they fall to the ground.
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