Date Night


A length of ham,
or something like it,
extends between us:
You, tired,
I, excited.

And if the evening
hadn't exploded
in shards of fuchsia,
if only the trench
of old anxiety
hadn't interposed,
then your perfume
would have turned the rain
upside down,
and later in life,
our sunsets would have yawned
in a russet skyline.

Only today,
the ghosts
hidden in the depths
of an office cupboard,
cut the tarot
in the wrong place.

And thus,
it cannot be.

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