Diana

You whisper your love, on public telephones, your ravaged moves , an arc of grace, a lifetime, learning to moan, before flames of medium pace, gather beneath the moon, all the recognised credit zones, can’t tolerate fools, why do they so berate, fresh linen eau de cologne, even if it keeps them late, does it make you swoon, Saints like Patrick whose bones, and spirits fill these rooms, to touch your sweet face, don't lie prone, beside ill lit highways, stars aren't brightest alone.