“I want to find truth” she said
I said “the truth is your nipples
pushing up your T-shirt,
the back of this hairbrush, sliding softly
across the inside of your thigh”

but, oh God, she wanted a map

so I drew us a small one
at the bottom it said:

Cool wash.
Dry flat.
Do not iron.

it was sewn into the side
of a rectangular white pub
where we meet ourselves,  older
just leaving , we went with us
and brought  fish and chips
on the outside of the newspaper
was printed a headline:
“Mathematicians, 66, work it out”
we tried:

every time i called you ‘babe’

a kiss at the bus stop
the way rain shines
on a red clay roof

which seemed a short answer
so I sang her this song:

My first love was like
a silky white moonstone
I lost her
in a snowstorm

My second was like
an amethyst purple
I lost her
in a dusk-sky

my third love is like
a blue and grey agate
I am lost
in  her storms