Marguerite…

… she loves me 

she loves me not    

she loves me       

she loves me not    

she loves me     

she loves me not…

cold vanilla kisses
on the warm concrete promenade

the sound of the postman
not stopping at our gate

waves beat against the boat
like your goodbye tears 
on the telephone

the trains are on strike
contraflows on the motorways
tailbacks for miles

the taste of wine
in your mouth and mine

the last seconds 
ticking away on the phonecard

… je t’aime              

un peu

beaucoup        

passionnément      

à la folie         

           

pas du tout… 

bristles on your cheek
and the sound of the sea 
in my ears

nothing to put 
in the familiar yellow box
in the Cathedral square

breathless, hand-in-hand
running for the last bus

seeing you on the crowded Métro
knowing you’re in another country

your voice on the phone
like summer lightning
in October

the taste of tears 
on an empty platform

… Marguerite

From Box. Published by Mammoth, 1990.