It could have been december,
or july. Not clearly I remember
what was around your face
and eye. A bus-like chamber, and outside
- on the road ahead, in another
bus-like smallest chamber -
our Rose, smiling
and waving a goodbye
with her pale-white hand,
fading in a hazy distance.
You saying she loves classroom trips,
me thinking am I here am I here am I
really here?, while I talk
using few silly syllables.
A sneak-bar out-of-time?
A train-cab, waiting for some red wine?
A bubble-with-a-seat halfway above?
A rent-a-room kept steady there
by a giant-winged dove?
These things I'd never know (dot dot dot)
but if that's meant to be
our secret heaven-spot
come again, love.