Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, a face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print & around
A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods for all time rigged

To full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez nobody who stayed home
tho slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
as part of the original anger to confuse.