That little boy, me,
often got into trouble
by fascinating little girls
with stories I made up
which were of course called lies.
So I gave up talking to girls,
or anyone else
who didn't know
that reality really needs improving on,
Until one day walking home from school
I made up a story about a kid in a story and thus
met Rose, dark-haired gypsy minx,
green and white party dress, bare feet,
who could talk herself right into my stories,
a merry master of truth's trickery,
what a friend!
I hadn't known people could be like that.
Well I guess they can't, eh?
this side of the world-mirror?
She had no name for some years,
until I realized it must be Rose
and when we grew to puberty,
that is another sort of verse.
Sex? Hey. She sang me real songs
in my sleeping dreams some nights,
although about me
and yet about what Nature
means Itself to be,
but the last few lines
She would laugh and leave out:
her usual girlish challenge.
The moment we die,
this amazing old lady
will judge I deserved her acquaintance -
but certainly sometimes, Rose,
you elusive flamboyance of grace,
you're sharp with your truths.