A domestic scene drenched in alcohol,
the gulls nearly take your fingers: you’re slow.
You call it loyalty,
but maybe you’re just afraid
to turn your back on her?

Not how she looks at you,
but how she looks away.
As they’re forced to run for cover
to shelter in doorways or under trees,
ah, they’re a little too tired,
all the wonder has turned to tears,
no more ammunition for his azure bubblegun.

An insect folds its wings inside a shabby rose,
it senses what you never can.
A last flight before the airport’s closed
taken over by the demonstrators,
she stares at you when you miss the train.

No one told her the secret of the chrysalis.
You realise you love her
and to the fading pim-pom of the announcer’s chimes
too late it dawns on you that you will never master
the art of leaving just in time.