He finally has come to rapidity, maybe,
too late. Like five'o'clock in the morning
when he woke up in a huff, crying, maybe
and the blank cameo that wasn't there
or still was there, which was worse.
And the trains that he boarded; late, or
crashed. The tin can of the tin can of the
tin can, indignant, unwilling to give up
the remembering and fills with water
and sinks promptly and irretrievably.
And when given him what should have
been a little golden Guadeloupe makes
him "nearly feel like" he loves you.
Makes him wake from a dream and think
what went too slowly was pushed quicker.
