Warm gentle images, slowed by us,
waft across our kaleidoscope.
I, with some occasional bashfulness,
deflect onto you,
the colored mirror's shine.
And you, shield your sparkling eyes,
letting that rare coughy laugh
in the close mood of the light,
with vintage wine on the table,
and the night that surrounds our backs;
when there is a tingly smile, (hah)
on me, and joy on us.
Oh, could Lennon be singing then?
(Not Imagine - although it is near divine)
Perhaps something you, or I, could tell
when there will be time.
< Overdoing Eliot's line? >
- Whatever fate decrees.