these days the light
turns Jericho pale blue
she’s twenty and pure
as the shy new moon
and when the sky whitens
in the afternoon
they lie like split cashews
in an upper room
pretend they like poets
and talk of the Louvre
she longs for somebody
but doesn’t know who.
turns Jericho pale blue
she’s twenty and pure
as the shy new moon
and when the sky whitens
in the afternoon
they lie like split cashews
in an upper room
pretend they like poets
and talk of the Louvre
she longs for somebody
but doesn’t know who.
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