This is how it should be, isn’t it?
Students are sitting on the grass out there.
I open my window, the air smells, well,
or is it my Chanel Allure?
Let’s say it’s both.
Allure and April, perfect elixir.
The clouds have slowed down to quattrocento speed.
You know, those voices are chiming.
I catch it then, Allure, swich licour
of which vertu engendred is the flour
on my wrist; scent of my breasts.
But I have some kind of race on.
Some kind of race. Head down,
blank in my head, craze chemicals;
blaze in my brain.