I want to clash swords with you,
in a Chelsea morning wake up
with river's flow of the fiddle and
drum scrape, apologizing in immediate
regret for things I didn't mean but did,
when clock struck midnight pumpkin faces
and sodden drink overcame sense.
When the sun comes in like toffee cream
and sticks to everything inside from bookshelf to
blanket, I'll be bounding up with slicking
hair and pinstripes to hide it away, how
much we were alike in darkroom development,
how little was our collapsing into now.