Before We Die
Before we die
We must be sure
To read the
Book of Longing
Maybe together
Under an ancient
Yet still white
Foaming quilt
And with a
Rogue bough
Tapping
Against the
Steamed up
Bedroom window
For I know
You would then
Be sure
To hold me tight
Of course
We would be
More than crazy
To try and read it
In the shower
While you were
Milking me
Beneath a layer
Of fine bubbles
And with that
Bloody bough
Still tapping on the
Bedroom window
In the key of F minor
Maybe then
It would make
More sense
To postpone our
Eventual coming
And dedicate these
Words instead
To Irving Layton or
Federico García Lorca
While allowing the
Storm to waste itself
On our behalf
And the bough
To break exhausted