I could talk to you more
in a late language we both know,
sink-scouring double penetration running make-up language,
I could believe no matter what you claim,
no matter how you change your story
or what you smell of, what places,
long closed down, you say
you spent a quiet evening in.
It gets worse.
Given half a chance I'd talk to you more
in the language of muck and fervour,
confusion and forgetting, I have my own hole to fill.
I could talk to you more, but you know by now
you can't take me anywhere.