The is someplace in the world
Where man is sitting under tree
and he is thinking only things,
like waterfalls or jelly peas.
Your fingernails are angels
sleeping after making love.
Thunder roared at night
like the voice of your angry man.
You drive me home
the street lamps go out
and everything becomes so dark
where it is cold and raining,
and you are alone again
The sound of your eyes:
Snow coming down the stairs of wind.
Your hair is the color
of God picking lonely flowers.
You drive me home
We are drinking rose tea
from little tiny Chinese cups
and she reads Apollinaire
to me in sweet and sour French.
A girl with French teeth
and dandelions in her hair
stops a black sportscar
beside me on the street and says,
I drive you home
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