All Business

Pit fire and the smell of wine
business was on the table,
violet myrtle climbed the wall behind you
with tiny fingers, as the corners of your mouth lost themselves
into hope-stained curves.
Our shoes, black and brown, tapped red red hearts together,
once, twice and then we noticed
the black bloom of the night and
the stars as shy as daylight lavender.
Business was off and under the table.
Napkins wer tucked in buttons undone
and like persian mandalas, something that
was not there before or was there but without a body,
wove itself around us with the butter light of
tapers.
We ate each other’s presence, sipped and swallowed
presence like the honey liquor.
As we rose from the table, somewhere
sunset touched sleeping gardens
and winter thought, “oh good”, as heart-breaking
things slipped down her throat
like
champagne.

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