Yellows

The past was pain.

The future is sane.

The past was me in cowardice.

The future is me all courageous, gone.

And when you ask me, of my yellows,

why those hellos were quite enough

to make me fall so mad in love,

ask yourself the contrary question:

is it really so hard 

for you to imagine your worth?

When I am 55 …

I shall be alive

And somewhere else;

A counting of takes and gives 

And reloved moments – 

When a fuck is 

So fine, not a whining 

Displeasure.

When I can ask you

To tuck me up

And out of such comfort 

Comes extraordinary 

Touch; that desire to ask

And beg and said and 

Say, and groan and moan 

At bad days and good,

And do what we want

Not what we should.

The future is yellow

And the Red has 

Brought us near.

So hear my voice 

And choice me

My love

All and for thrice:

This is tree!