Come over to my place Electric Face and we’ll lay our weapons still,
we could meditate on the state of humanity and set a new moral code
to be deciphered at a later date,    or prune the old apple trees at the end of the garden
yielding fat round fruits    once more    or you could read Krapp’s Last Tape
in my armchair    and I’ll turn on the lamps as dusk falls over.    We could cook up
some prawns with pinches of chilli, green beans, and bread.    Come over
to my place Electric Face.    You could be my guru and I’ll be your sidekick
and scramble you eggs in the morning.    They’ll give you indigestion but be lovely
at the time.    And I’ll tell you every morning—I won’t hold back—
what you mean to me.    Come over and we’ll watch
through the kitchen window
the black birds in the garden,
and the way they move in synch
and we’ll look,    we’ll look