THE MOON OR FENTANYL The first two weeks of love pluck out your eyes, Inject you with the finest fentanyl. Those blankets-tossing leave you mummified, But there are many worse ways to be killed. The moon watches from far away and laughs: How lovely, to see her fine influence Reflected in the curling toes and gasps Of lovers who cannot foresee the end. The sightless monster roams the land, seeking That dope he used to smoke when he was young, Some sensation to make life worth living. Those first two weeks of love: he had them, once. The moon or fentanyl, it’s up to you. Most drugs will lie. Love won't tell you the truth.
