You won’t go
running round
with me.
You are barefoot
on the cobblestone
like a rickshaw
runner in saigon.
You won’t float
with me in a
silken haze, living in
***** dreams for
nights and days.
You won’t know me now
to the end of time,
in an orientalist house
with mats and gowns.
You won’t dress in
black and poppy,
dark haired lady,
and languored fan
in a singer sargent  
portrait painting.
You tap the
oxen tied to the wheel,
you want some
rice for the
next meal.  You
won’t hold me  
in a whirling storm,
ending when
the pipe’s
white smoke
is completely gone.