will you come

I know it's late but will you come?

To the end of the party, 

to the crossing of the bun?

I know it's late... 

But there's an ember and a sandwich,

there's a drop of tea at least.

And you and I can bandage 

all those crumbs into a feast.

I know it's late for dancing, 

and we're too long gone to chat.

The others stopped their prancing 

when their bubbles had gone flat.

When the gong had stopped its ringing,

when the parrot man had flown,

when the mist had dissipated, 

when the stitch-up had been sewn.

I know it's late for touching, 

I know it's late for bed,

but anyway I'm busting, 

though the article's been read,

though the jemmy started rusting, 

though you've lain your weary head;

I'm thinking of Augustine, 

he said he loved too late,

but anyhow surrendered, 

to his monumental fate,

to the Zen kerchoo defenders,

to the Angel in the bath,

to the latent splish of vision 

which generates a tree

in the tap room of a bar, 

setting monkeys free

because their fists were in the jar.

I know it's late, I know it's late...

But come come, do, 

I think it's not too far...