And once in a dream, perhaps
or moreover, in the lace
of the tablecloth that we set as boys,
I saw an image of myself,
with the trumpeters, and the chariots.
And feeding, as we do
on those who are too weak
or again, perhaps, too kind
to feed themselves,
has become a chore.
And today, as often now,
the pipe seems a chore.
And the steps to your door
seem the same.
And my maker has gone away,
and I've been here for too long already.
And the Sun, (what little you know of the Sun)
is hiding again, in the morning, or the wheat fields.
And if I cannot have you,
(as it certain is appearing)
then I'll take none,
and I will, as before
take myself away.
Because the train to Saumur
runs like clockwork.
And if you need me,
I'll be the pages of the picture book,
and written on the bathroom wall.
This isnt what we're here for.
No comments:
Post a Comment