Dear you, whose face has scarce left my mind
over years. You that I want to meet by chance.
Intelligence tells you're no effort to find,
but calculation warns of a dangerous dance.
Great waves smashed the coast at Perranporth
while in that tight room your waves washed my mouth.
Sweat broke in heat over sheets, the exhaust
emissions of contortion, and skin roused.
On a dark lane near The Pilot Boat
we joked of sexy strawberries.
Then, against that tree I held you afloat,
while Mercury sang '200 degrees'.
I want, just once, for you to be Louise
to embrace at a bus station and the others
that have filled the time between, to fade,
so that we can be 'as if we were still lovers.'