The Fakir of Bishkek

We're down to drying roses
grapes out of season
a smattering of tangerines
and girls who look like you.
Down to the movies
We never saw together, two
as I recall. Maybe others.
On the way past Arabesque
the mountains loom in the dark
like gigantic snoring bears,
but like my secrets
I cannot see them. You did.
You clenched my past in a fist
and wrung it dry and said
it was not a life but a race
With an invisible dead father
who had never liked roses,
or opera, or me very much.
So, you wonder of me, What
is my favourite song, my
favourite time of day?
I don't know I say honestly.
Can't you see darling
I am running from the bears,
the drying roses,
the invisible dead father,
and there is no time
for the slowness of your kiss.