If I go tomorrow
with my toothbrush
do not follow.
Lace multiplies in the hands
of old women.
I shall make† lace
and eat avocados
like pears over the kitchen sink,
their green gold butter in my mouth.
Of course Iíll miss you
but there are telephones
and string tied to tin cans.
All our friends are married
and waltz their arguments out
into the street under an indifferent moon.
Iíll rent a flat somewhere
in some smoky city in the north of Ireland
or in a sultry shack where Iíll sing
Mississippi delta† blues.
Iíll return, come back, reunite Ė
be yours again but I wonít be the same.
Weíll spend the rest of our lives
getting to know each other.
Youíll tie me to the bed with silk† scarves;
Iíll walk around all day in a robe
wearing nothing underneath.
We might even drift together
like two planets
dangerously close to collision.
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