i don’t want to think of a
facsimile place you’d rather be.
i dont want to think of you at all,
daughter of the baroque,
i want where things are careless
and your upper lip
does not stand watch overy your lower lip.
we could go swimming
in all that is wrong and unjust.
but for now I want those dreams of you smiling in a gondola,
biting your nails.
i will let you correct my bad grammar
if you promise we can sit in the middle of any street
and contemplate the old woman
who follows us with white