Lost this time, outside
We can’t find a sound to mimic
The lying birds lie too quietly.
Your breath, then, stains
Serenity, as if repeated
Thousands of times in my car.
Between fingers, a cigarette
Hangs desolately. Air trailing away.
Meaning would strive
To find a verse of voices, softly
Lingering in your mythic dusk.
In such moments only your lust
Strikes out to find time
And the future wants nothing
Of you and I staging an argument.
Its too loud and time to stagger inside.
With thanks to John Ashbery and 'Some Trees'
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