The Lover

He waits and it is not without

a great deal of trouble that he tickles

a nightingale with his guitar.

He would like to cry Andiamo!

but alas! no one has arrived

yet although the dew is perfect

for adieux. How bitterly he beats

his hairy chest! because he is

a man sitting out an indignity.

The mean moon is like a nasty

little lemon above the ubiquitous

snivelling fir trees and if there's

a swan within a radius of

twelve square miles let's

throttle it. We too are worried.

He is a man like us erect

in the cold dark night. Silence

handles his guitar as clumsily

as a wet pair of dungarees.

The grass if full of snakespit.

He alone is hot admist the stars.

If no one is racing towards him

down intriguingly hung stairways

towards the firm lamp of his thighs

we are indeed in trouble sprawling

feet upwards to the sun our faces

growing smaller in the colossal dark.