We were soon to dislodge
ourselves from this
embarrassing embrace,
though longed to be
as permanent
as the trees:
Arcadian spectators
longing speechlessly to let
our discolored ancestors
live in a fortified mound of leaves.

A cigarette burning
at her elbow,
he proposed
“I will give you sponge cake and cider
in exchange for alcoholic lullabies.”

Too late for that now;
the stars pierced the pale vale
spread heavily
over an August night,

Far too late
She rose gauchely,
brushed sawdust from her cheeks
                        and wandered
out into the open,
into a reality that she knew then
would soon become
a stolid simple thing.