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Revisions

I’ll be young with you still. One stroke of pen
cancels a decade: our unfaithful room
evicts new tenants, guts our suitcases.

This is the mess all things should be.
The floor mattress holds us in its arms,
electrics falter at heart-pace.

Don’t ask why we always have champagne.
There’s no economy in nostalgia:
no limit to your pouring down my throat,

bubble-drunk, not yet twenty, everything
defining us instantly. You slip new art
under the door like an intimate note

or forgive me, not like that at all.
I am so given to comparing things
and stalk our memories like a jealous third.
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