There are long whips in the sea, ladies.
They are my tears. I cried them.
Ladies, not much separates me.
Not much. From love, from other such.
Not much, ladies. The word 'cat'
separates me and the word 'necessary'
and a certain question about the definition of
'age'. Not much separates me. Not much.
The boy takes a whip up from out of the foam.
He strikes the rock because he likes the sound.
I am amused and distracted, "Tom,"
I call, "put it down, my dear." He only does it
because he likes the sound. And I am,
after all, only amused. Ladies,
take the long whips, these tears I've shed.
I don't care what you do with them
but they are necessary. Not much separates me.
A question of time. My tears have nothing
to do with that.
(originally published in New Stone Circle)