During dinner,
somehow she finds me
in the sentences
I unwittingly italicize
amid paragraphs
of rambling speech.
". . . these great gardens, and wonderful old oak trees
surrounded by acres of woods . . ."
She puts her hazel
directly into my blue-green.
"Oh- you love land!"
she exclaims, knowing
my labor to
sustain love for a city.
I go again,
talking invisible fear,
crying out.
". . . it's something I'm working on, I don't want
to worry about that . . . "
She drapes a soft, tawny hand
over my thigh
and reminds me in her cool
womanly way:
". . . It's you and me baby, moving forward . . . "
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