My Harry – III

The air is sweet, ready

rubbed and money-makers.

I sit by your feet between stopped

vines on my dried-up

milking stool.

You use an artist’s brush

to stimulate

the stamen and succour

the carpel and the bee.

Behind you, Araneus casts his orb aside

and reclines to feast on

your aphid harvest.

We don’t talk.

When you move

I move.

When you breathe

I breathe,

and listen

to the tick

of your heart.

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