We are an onslaught of hushed paragraphs with promises yet left unseen

And I am the milkmaid who lies to her father’s trusting eyes

And you are a thousand ceramic vases full of oxeye daisies

And what of your dreams, and your nightmares?

When next can we travel Moonside,

And when instead are things so bright they blind us?

A mantelpiece has never before teemed with such unapologetic misery

Chainsmoke if you must, but hold each cigarette for a moment first

Treat each as your last,

Let them feel that glorious entanglement before their dismissal