He takes his dinner in the back
Love-sickened and unfurled
The orderly found in there

Filleted on the marble stairs
Hat still in hand
His smoking remains

Blown out by a kiss from the someday soon

Someday soon

Someday soon
Someday soon


His eyes are closed he mouths the name
The rosary her lips and tongue
She is the centrifuge that throws

The spires from the sun
The Sistine Chapel
Painted with a Gatling gun


Someday soon
Someday soon

Someday soon

Someday soon

Someday soon

Polar Nettles set on him

Move like starlings up a cliff
And tender of a foggy touch
The voice filled round her frosty hips

Whose shape recalls the wicked spade
That buried him but on his lips
The last flights of ??

Someday soon