by Jessica Bolluyt
An October evening, she sits across from him
at a cafe table in the silver dusk and lamplight.
Mirrors catch their hands and faces and the stars.
In the tablescape of the sky, fallen leaves are
roving dice, rolling over and over
His canvas overcoat
obscures her white shoulders, an eclipse
and a shadow.
The bare relation of the sternum to the ribs
superimposes itself against the formation
of Orion's stars, and the steady stream
of small pairs of white headlights
becomes the ice-cube array of reflections in
the glass of water she raises to her lips.
The moon is an upturned sugar bowl, and
as the waiter arrives to take
the order - “Fossil teeth put humans in Europe
earlier than thought,”a headline drones -
pale astronomers drop like mayflies at their telescopes,
rendering the planet so nearsighted as to leave
an imminent asteroid unannounced.
Last Updated: 4/12/12