Fallen from focus, streetlamps turn to faint
plots. Anything we ever said in confidence

is now lost among wintered statues,
your cemetery and its white lawn of concrete teeth.

The city is still a patchwork: the spilt light
of unlocked trees, a broken moon’s

better shade. Beyond all that we lie together
in some unnumbered room reserved for memory.

Please, it’s dark out. Wait. The windows
won’t have anything for us till morning.