With tongues cigarette minted we lipped
The blueprints of our disappointments
That left our songs in mouthfuls trapped,
Our ingrown teeth red with persistence.
In the afternoons the soul turns timid.
Ideals childish coded against the flow,
The heart’s timpani stride becomes a tired thud
Wise words lose their attack - crescendo.
We are nothing but brave peninsulas
Met only by the pinkish heat of light
That seasons the muted currents between us
And dresses the glittered trimmings of the night.
None of us islands, none free from each other.
Love is our revolution, not our master.