I can’t believe that you’re―
a stranger now, just from across,
on train or in a creaking streetcar,
that rumbles through the clamor
of the day.

Palm’s width between our knees―
we are removed and moving
through the auburn air,
through golden-dusted avenues,
as legions of facades march toward us, 
their glazed grids flashing and reflected
in our eyes.

From our cushy window seats—
the well worn worsted curtains
gathered in the corner—
we recollect a mythy world,
where sky was friendlier and nearer,
still undivided,
and we beneath it, poems in palms,
read to each other.