Well, then...

I will go. It is a bustling street,
a constant hum of blurry conversation loud enough,
though just, to cancel out the tinnitus
or seem to.

But not so much at this half-deserted hour.

How can you fret so much a single question, my god,
just ask, just fucking ask her, if she turns you down
move on. The world is full.

The sunset orange glow rages across the evening.
The bellies of the clouds absorb the brilliant light
like thirsty sponges, and they explode
or seem to.

But not tonight.

And there she stands, in a white blouse traced
in lace, a loose black skirt, black nylons,
red shoes, and her whole wonderful face framed
by her black hair. And she is staring
at the words I cannot hear
flowing from his lips, her hands
behind her as she leans against the railing.
At the first pause, she will know just exactly what to say
and they will laugh

music.

Just fucking say it. My god—

A moment has no breadth, you see. Cut a slice of bread
you can always cut it thinner, cut it thinner, cut it
to the absolute threshold of a molecule. But
the moment has no breadth. It rings forever.

Perhaps I will pass by her on my way to the bar
for a drink I do not need and
pause
at the jingling of her bracelets
as I look around for someone who I know
cannot be there--and maybe
if the wind is right snatch the wafted perfume of her hair.

But not tonight.

What the goddam fuck is the matter with you?
It’s a simple question.

Listen! Enmeshed in the din of a hundred conversations
you can hear the bumping meter of the fountain
as it splashes out of giant roses all about a slyly
micturating god. Rude water forced through marble
for a thrill.

No. I said, no. No. No. I do not think I will.