Cleaning[-UP]

And cleaning-up is 

Down from town

In 

As

Much as more or less.

And [w]resting my

Love from

Your purposeless

Delphine

Is quite a wristful 

Of rank:

The cancer of roaming 

Without 

Home-

Ing 

On trip.

And so then I sit

And see your face

And you smile

So brief

As if wearing lace.

And perhaps you are,

And perhaps we could,

And perhaps one day

You’d be my friend.

And mebbe it’s right,

And – mebbe – quite wrong

Again:

But the loss of not 

Cleaning[-UP] 

Ever in

My bed or yours

Would

Hurt 

So very much

Before death acclimatised

Us

Both.

So let’s not let it happen

Before we do

See each other

Lost, and

Gone and

Done and

Rendered bewildered

By dust

Of ultimate embrace.

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