little i knew not

late for bela. we were almost late.
in november drizzle 
lost and kissing,
darkness slowing our gait.

wishing, when I play
i play like booker
angry, and incredulous
words in vain,
that I knew,
knew little not.

rushing past us rows of languid lights.
vowels inhaled –
words in vain,
in the darkness,
of november rain.