Virtual Reality

We meet on warm June evenings Café table on deserted boulevards A mess of bottles and of glasses Books and poems that we share The wine is ice cold from the bucket Scented with a hint Of Provence spice You wear the green dress Spangled, shimmering Your eyes too deep for my tired fantasy Your hair falls back a flaming ziggurat of red and gold The café closes No one lets us know Chairs are piled And tables pushed back from the road Oblivious We tell our tales 'till dawn We lose each other Merge Become one voice It is one story holding us The wine half drunk The ice not melting Just this tiny space Between two heartbeats Where we squeeze our dream Morgal (7/6/97)

 

Poems copyright Morgal. Page put together by and copyright of Yobunny, 2000. Updated 2006