Dark Like a Restaurant
leave my clothes furled, dear
for I'm not leaving the monarchy
of your delicate rebellion
so close and yet so far
by the weakly-lit windows of your room
swimming through
the mistletoe fantasies
you're such a dilettante
and your indigo moods
and your oblivious thistle bloom
you'll be my poison
and I'll be your antidote
for I'm not leaving the barge, not yet
I'm not leaving the Cawdor Lodge
no matter what
no more
no more
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