and I would rather be with you
than drifting, bemused, through the infinite gestures
of french women in Montmartre,
or bathing in the afternoon sun of a Maltese shore.
You are a spell of fainting into the estuary of dream,
ten fold the intimacy of Joyce, or *******,
and much less arduous to be sure;
but also just as mad.

Often It seems so ridiculous
for me to compare you to a vast number of things,
except maybe peeling an orange
because you are equally as sultry
and dangerous.