A half-kilometre of pounded pavement between
a set of red light sangria glasses and home,
things were clearer than they had before been:
airs wet soak-sop, knitted blanket cotton,
clinging to lung in blanked stench of tar smoke.
Thinking it over in the midnight afterglow
of CityTV softcore pornography and off-brand headache
cures, you were right in saying it all so soon,
right in painting ourselves as separate portraits,
and right in untamed rose shade grasps at comity.
But, in the humid flop-sweat of jungled July,
how wrong I wished you had been.