Decidedly blase, as the hours tumble past
If divinatory; as the strains of old fugues
That once roused us to incoherent victories.
Never mind that the **** crowed thrice,
Ere you forgot our names-
And lord, the company you keep
Locked in that old hobnail chest;
How you'd be disdained, were it known
The lampshades here drink old *****
Under a goat-grey sky, at morning
And your key's sloppy turning, meteor-like
On its slow approach, at decoding the lock.
But sleeping fitfully now, on the porch,
Your muddy shoes can tell no tales
Of your evenings holy grails.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
Decidedly blase, as the hours tumble past
If divinatory; as the strains of old fugues
That once roused us to incoherent victories.
Never mind that the **** crowed thrice,
Ere you forgot our names-
And lord, the company you keep
Locked in that old hobnail chest;
How you'd be disdained, were it known
The lampshades here drink old *****
Under a goat-grey sky, at morning
And your key's sloppy turning, meteor-like
On its slow approach, at decoding the lock.
But sleeping fitfully now, on the porch,
Your muddy shoes can tell no tales
Of your evenings holy grails.
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