My dear, I know exactly what you are:
The sound of spring filtered through heavy glass,
The sky viewed underneath an overpass,
The gentle breezes of a hot dive bar,
Have nothing on you. The La Brea tar,
Sticky with age, the browning leaves of grass
Left on my lawn in summer, or the mass
Transit of L.A.? More lovely far
Are they than you. I know you very well:
The empty ocean is a busy street
Covered in shops in which men buy and sell
Every bad impulse and each sinful treat
Compared with your sweet company, and hell
Is but the word for where you and I meet.
No comments:
Post a Comment