The Eighteenth of August 1918
Is apparently a significant date…
You’re far away-
From this place, your mind trickles back
To a sick ballad you sang on a grey beach.
Come to me, you said to Juliet, from Liverpool she came.
Except in Liverpool she stayed.
Come to me, you repeat, months later,
And she comes to you in a half asleep trance.
Oh Juliet, you say… save me from my sins…
You are a Saint. My Guardian angel to whom I repent,
And she kisses you like she’s endless poetry.
Space. A beautiful place. Almost as beautiful as your eyes,
You say offhand as she listens to the Smiths. She laughs.
You love her laugh. It’s poetry. A lot about her is poetry.
You stare, into her eyes, and think, I wish I was there.
Time passes, as it usually does,
And she’s half asleep as you read her Eliot.
So intimate, Ash Wednesday. I do not hope to turn again,
And a half smile erupts from her face.
this is nothing and everything, and you're very far away.