Light scatters through frail leaves in bay
windows. A band of smog-softened sun
edges along the chaise longue. A jewel
ignites when beams reach the bottle
and I raise my eyes to hear you say:
The past, that feeble attempt at the present.
Our former Weltstadt is on the ebb.
We must soon pack our books and move on.
But not yet. We both need another.
With any luck we’ll be in bed before
this digests, fake moonlight from the neons
falling across our shoulders and chests.
For Don Ernsting