You look as though you know me, or someone
I used to be—I’ve been other people—
You’re almost on the tip of my tongue
I know your scar, I know your steady gaze.
My threadbare coat informs me that “they lie,”
Perhaps in wait: a free service of coats,
But one I’ll just ignore. Please lie to me.
Please tell me that this airplane goes back home.
We’re going west. Is it the ocean, then?
I’m flattered if this is about those truths
Sometimes appearing in my pamphlets
But you can’t stop them; winter always ends.
Give me a cigarette. Viva whoever.
Maybe I met you in a dream.