Even now, after we've finished, after we've washed ourselves,
back in bed, reading, listening to Lenny Breau's playing "On Green
Dolphin Street," there is much to know, much to speak of.
The heart, if we let it, speaks a new language, so we learn
translation. You tell me of $200 haircuts in New York. Of dolls,
Chryslers, letters to the editor. And I ask why certain weeds have
thorns. You tell me there must be a certain beauty in weeds,
a certain need. I'll get some pasta tomorrow, you say. I'll make
the sauce, I say. Our voices, like feathers, settle into the music.
The bass becomes a walk among café tables after a rain.
We reinvent this city with brownstones, with flowers,
with familiar windows. We walk in the direction of the one,
perfect dusk. Turn off the light. Let the guitar play on.
Let me touch the fire of your skin. Disregard nothing in the flame.
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