"
...only to be rediscovered some years hence and acclaimed as a flawed
but magnificent work of genius long after I have succumbed to a tragic,
unrecognised and untimely death."
In each letter you enclosed
a petal from the rose I stole.
The rose hung like a cured bird
from the curtain-pole above your desk.
The petals fell like buck-shot on the text
or were scattered on your bed.
Your bed. The linen was clean.
The radio lent music to our dreams,
the window so far wide
the morning sun couldnt help but find us
sleeping, wilfully dreaming,
of love ever-lasting.