Sure, we've let a few things go, but
the moon got in our brains through the skylight
and try as we might, everything seemed silver
and dreamy creamy to us, while all you had to say was,
"Girls, girls, girls," in that clotted voice of yours.
Now, we will do what we will,
as slowly as lunar transit,
and glacially as math comprehension
when there are madflowers in the spring,
outside the ruptured panes
of mind and custom.
Girls, girls girls,
that's what we are, or were, at least,
now lazing with roses in our teeth
and all the time in the world to
receive and revive
our lovers driven to insensibility
by the clock-stopped way
we do them when the dawn is postponed,
attendance dispensed with
and the Ouija board stuck between YES and NO
like a stutterer who can't speak and so sings
like a hypnagogic hallucination of
Girls, girls. girls.