Hate is for the jilted,

no-go refunds

and markets saturated with remembrance.

I'd like to pick tulips

and prise up weekends for play,

we'll scream

down corridors and

is that not enough?

 

Dreading penance I don't want

rain days, just candles

and cars, the road

and space

to dream and walk.

 

When I fall too far

you call me back

and I'll open the letter of your face

and climb in,

a bodyguard for a noble savage

and a far wanderer

gift horses lying sated at my feet

counting in time 

six seven eight nine ten.