Not as bad as you are
And the next time that I see you
I shall be old, a figure
Couched from under acquaducts
Where you still remain abroad a silent
jet plane openly bound across velvet seas.
Stuck in town myself, to go back
for years on aird, rugged paths
Poetry appears that sure entrance to a
storied paradisical garden, where pure
patented mystique fulfills its indispensable acts
your passion's kiss maintained against our age.