Hello Sixty,

If i'd met you fifty november- thursdays ago,
hundreds of Christmas puddings digested
at the blinks of Eyes
who today, know nothing but how
to close-
would we have stroked fingers.
Helled hands,
held hands.
I think not, that instead you
would find white like some glorious
Nymph who hated hated hated
your peeling Sixties' skin,
which stretched too large
right around
when beetles crawled
away from their lair to fumble
with some other crops.

Mr. Sixty your hair's stacked high
and curled with a go-go boot. you
swear you touch
freely but you do in one Corner, where
God's kisses filled lava lamps
and with money in your pocket
you called them
your own.












Sincerely,











Flake