Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

It's no distance at all to that night
Where I always sit, formal and nonsmoking,
Your head on my shoulder,
Your mind gently dreaming.
The bar's lights and darknesses move about me
And I couldn't care less;
All these people, loving, arguing, not-loving:
The warm-up act until you wake.

Then you do, rubbing your eyes,
Blinking and smiling up at me, still a bit sleepy,
And all at once I'm fluent in nothing much
Except legerdemain gestures and ho-hum secrets.
So I tuck a random red curl behind your ear,
Excuse myself and wander, covertly drunk,
To the bog.
Where I'll piss in the sink by mistake
And talk to myself in the mirror
About an algorithim of what to say
And exactly the right moment not to say it.