Kept warm, wrapped in butterflies beneath the stars, we met
along this new town's English boulevard of empty trees,
the glimmer of (hope) restaurant facades and TV-blue
a-glow upon her face, framed in fur.
A whole new realm of experience for me
at my whole new ripe old age of innocence;
we entered the bright, Turkish elegance and gave our coats
and I wondered what the menu would bring,
but cannot read it; more interested in her brown eyes,
- (and the marble bar and the rose-adorned wall
and the egg-chair for Instagramming) -
and her eyes, and her eyes, don't glare -
self-consciously aware that I'm now staring
at her hair - the menu, the squiggles on the menu -
and stop. The menu resolved and we ordered.
Her face resolved from the sum of each separately beautiful part
and we talked.
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