Bound around cigarettes, cigarette tree in fact
methadone orchard for the difficulty of remembering
the present moment,
harsh lungfuls of the stuff
trailing your scent, drinking your perfume
under the squirrelled palaver of your fringe
She said, ‘You gave me a taste of freedom
but I don’t want to drown in…’
the gift of waking orange under orange curtains
cooking pasta de norma that makes us smell of onions
for days and days of poets and plays,
libretto, our delights
and inevitable freedom fights
and endless endless journeys on spine tingling roads
and who could want that?
and who could want anything but that.

She said, ‘don’t look at me like that,
like you can see me…’,
a little voice, do you see me?
on a grand tour from Washington
to the banks near Heuston
the map under your skin, already written in
dark and twisted, blue under the sunshine
whispering kiss her, hold her
That crafty voyeur Eisenstaedt
he only wants his Klimt clinch snap
But I want to follow them home,
and watch her comb his thinning hair
and watch her prune under the sun

All things fade under the sun
It fuels and burns in equal measure
À la recherche du temps perdu
Yes, dear Alex, I see you