Intrepid   punked   my love

truant in dress, a true sucker
like him who turns an ear like a page,
a brute man who sides with the perched rage
eating with family and choking on news;


the stains of palm-grabs on the drainage pipe
beside the window where the branch chuckles
at the swan-traced latticework.
I don't remember when I'd seen a swan last,
but I know they are comfortable in water
(which I can never be until)
and they are rather sedate fellows;


this calls for a musty retreat
where no delayed trains can haste,
where ideas plank on to merge with the urge
to surge in the splurge of steak-
mixed sauces, the way we love
is a mix of tastes that smells
like a damning auto-tale.