SHEILA
Not to go ridiculous matter use
those fulcrum hands to rove and
roam. Mistake the car maybe for
the cat - the theoretical cat yet
trapped : what's in a name anyway?
-
Today I am cleaned of all things.
Words and images all disappear.
Where are you now, Sheila? Is it
all still the same: that Ravel Bolero,
your trench-coat wears, that
Summer Street inkling - when
I was lost in bright sunlight?
-
Yes, you can battle to the end
of all time, but I bet at the end
there's still time for all that: all
your Neil Young decolletage,
those slight breasts always
pushing forward and on.
No comments:
Post a Comment