She drew each suit Of a deck of cards On my arm with a Black ballpoint pen We nursed our shared glass And took ice once All the customers had taken Their motorbikes into the night We made love beneath The fairy-lights and Cleansed ourselves In simple, beautiful poverty
I knew that the ink The glass The ice The fairy-lights And the *** Would all burn out Or wash away
I knew that the poverty Would lift Eventually And expose Our rushed And reasonless Foundations