Like rain, desiring, the Cocteau Twins
return, bringing that cold sadness
again: sweet as a bare shoulder, lost
pain, an ice flavoured as your skin,
which was, summertime, the toast
of my tongue, trying to barely possess
your black boy-cut bangs as they ran
like water in mythic April showers –
you and your cherry Docs, alley-dancing,
your lips as untouched as the
I forfeited for high style, laughing gas;
A. Alvarez mourns that no one reads I.A.
shivering, music like kisses: recollection.