After reading out, explaining Eliot three times,
Within three months, without direction
I laid aside those scripts and I
Turned to love.
I like it when it rains on the
Otherside of the roof. That ceiling, then,
Not my own, doesn’t belong to me or matter.
Do not give me these emotion laid down on a platter.
I met a non-elite poet, who asked the
Colour of my briefs. I said, I aren’t a boxer
And she slurred. Said that a little Austen, Thumberlina
Usually rocks her to sleep
And I speak with an old friend, head covered
From the mist. She says, “Darling, it’s been time,
What’s the meaning of this?” This is my beard-stubble.
Means nothing, particularly.
In the sun, coming down like rain,
We walked and we smiled and we talked of pain.
You talk to me of your lover and I talk to you about mine
And I tell you I am real and you tell me you are fine.