I never did quite get round to the poem for you.
I mean i never got round to the poem for her.
I was going to write one, I fully intended to.
I guess we were busy being what we were.
And whoever’s trailing me out to the end of this line
probably doesn’t think he or she has need
of a guide to tour these ruins, would be just fine
alone with earphones or a sheet to read
abstractedly in the lemon-grey sunrise.
And he or she would be right. In fact right now
I can see he and she: they are meeting each other’s eyes
and edging away from my talk, the have met somehow
by mutual mouthing of the sweet /so what/,
/no more to say/, their attitude agree
as they drift together away in the dust while you lot
stay to the end, which means the world to me.

Another recommendation by Xena

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[…] by Carol Ann Duffy My Talk by Glyn Maxwell Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare You by Carol Ann […]