In this city, we could sit together at a poetry reading whoever you are can you imagine, how it would be if I ever met you? An old church Pay at the door for the famous poet The crowd attends praying by their presence for a perfect world I’d be young and you’d be pretty enough to say so talking with my eyes, proudly, nervous the two of us. Shouldn’t we know each other? The stage is yellow The crowd applauds the poet and he begins to speak. Given our friendship and all the possibilities side by side as we, and any friends, couldn’t they say we were made for each other? Why else would we both happen to be in the same room listening, I with my pen in hand, you with your quick smile that applauds my interest in you. Your hands dance for me. You didn’t come here for me but there you are. The poet takes me up and down many staircases, thinking of an open meadow call it love, why not? We are trapped in our theater seats, while the poet reads. We converse from hand to eye and with the wringing of your hands to show your nervous beauty. I reply with a careful twist a gentle show of palm to palm of grip to wrist, finger to finger, and though I may never say so I love you as you are.

3 November 1973