The orchestras kept playing. They had a gin fix.

Why in this fog I still see you I can’t say.

With your beard and high darkness around me.

In your small machine many messages

and faces that once let you in.

The ocean drowns time all the time, slowly.

Everyone had a birthday and buried something.

I was coming from one person and into another

when really what are we: some accident. 

In this show where we all have a favorite. 

What we have is a taste for that thing we can feel, 

will not say. Some of us wanted more

and in all the wrong ways too. 

There was of course an escape…

in a year, on a street, in some near distant past 

when what had us was childish and flame.

And maybe it would have been different 

and maybe it would have been this.

Do you remember my hair when I met you?
Much longer. The violins ended it well.

Outside, the city continued to tease us.

Hurricanes came, storms couldn’t please us:

it was all very fast and beautifully made.

You ask why I’m thinking of death  

but I’m thinking of you and it’s fleeting. 

We were terrible, unrelenting and everywhere then. 

All I know is I can’t stop writing about people.

So much happened. I can’t stop writing about love.