So was sad being bad? Or was bad being sad?
Was she evil – or even mad – for thinking the bad ways she did?
Did she think the ways she thought
‘cos she was evil or more?
Or had she simply forgotten what goodness meant?
Or had goodness forgotten to stop at her door-
step – and touch her
fondly nose to nose, as they so used to
for each other in those days
of curiously breathless wangling free-
Or maybe she’s thinking there’s an easy way out – and, in
truth, there’s no way but sin-
gling and tingling her way to adult idiocy.
Only, then again, she once used to believe so dearly
in love – and its ability to tri-
umph noisily over
And nothing, in those days, would ever
stand in the ways
of a love that
was made in heave-
moments of exhila-
ration: nothing portioned nor shared
with wisdom or caution, but rather madcap pur-
suit of rose-attached beauty.
us sweets of adult joy sucked glorio-
purely toys of childlike
games … these were days she clearly
Days she’d used to measure the rest of the
days she treasured fleetingly