I come to, knocking on the door of the cellar –
locked up for the summer – where you keep your ‘heart’.
But isn’t that the parcel you passed
to some likely guy, a neighbourhood fellow,
one spring day full of showers and confetti,
in between mowing the lawn in a check shirt
and making sensible plans for your retirement ?
Why don’t you ask for it back, wrapped
in plastic – we could take it with us on our
vacation from the feelings we wade through
each evening, in our separate rooms.
Then I really
wake up, and there I am: painting
the skylight amber to filter the glare
that shines on the Southern Hemisphere,
and when the record stops, it’s your turn:
Love & Marriage, say, or Frenesi,
but not the Moonshine Sonata
in his black jacket
gusting across Broadway in a flurry of snow.