Nobody, except you, can do it right
to feel the morning-ache, the playful
up and down of the iris. But, when
we rubbed against eachother, you gave
a sound of pitch. You told me to give
up, and I told you to be quiet, now. But still.
A door shuts. A voice is clipped. A
want is illuminated.
You told me to ignore all come-ons,
Impressionistic. A beautiful exorbitance.
We are all impressionists.
Cutting the stem before it’s beautiful.
I dreamt of careful beauty.
You stepped in my nights, like I was
You dreamt of the country,
And I did too.
Your energies wasted on small things.
I admire you as Vines die.
You’re very pretty
I want to understand this boy
in vague, GCSE versions
Of small language.