in the simple perfect

I’m twitchy as a debutante
on a hot October joyride
doing two hundred down the hill road

onto the outskirts,
headlights drilling at the future.
I’d give you the stars,

I’d pluck them down – here,
you have them, they’re only stars,
and in their abundance we marvel at them less,

massive specks adrift in a debris field, caught,
like a Coldstream Guard wandering out
of a right royal scandal
with no shirt, nor sidearm, nor
pants, saying ‘I’d see you less if
I could have you more.’

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