We can talk about the right
Order of adjectives all night,
It may very well be, as you seem to say,
A question of consequences unintended,
But I propose that we remain silent anyway,
Until such time as morning among us like a moth
Comes to light, But as the tar-patched
Roof Is happily drummed
by the rainy spell and the darkest dawn,
No moths around here
For miles, no truth here but desire—
Red, happy and like a puckered currant,
I eschew commitment. But whoa!
Let’s not learn to turn each other
Off before the lees of our morning tea
Hit the bottom of our cups.
There you sit now
In the maple-dappled light of the bay window
That turns your black hairs to auburn
And your auburn hair to gold,
Fresh cream in your cup, amber honey in mine,
We are pleased together getting old,
As the whistle of the pot rests from screaming.