Clara

You stroll off the meter, but you don't see me, dressed for the cashmere theatre, blow upon your polished fingers, at the Salon du Te,' hear policemen whisper, discuss suitable places to be, sip Darjeeling, no need turn on your heel, guaranteed protection, like a bushel of wheat, they whisper Blondie’s singing, and all of those parties, you danced by the sea, a desperate fleur de Lys, did waves rise in rhythm, do you remember our street, where you skipped in rayon, twisted to their screams.