Heavy, in deafening silence,
the men of ourselves walk
unforgiving pavement, the
regulated order of stars weaving
through them.

Rigid delineations of before and
now holding fierce and momentary
concern, the endless margins
of a static grey world
left behind.

And somewhere beyond the city,
far from street dogs, din of traffic,
and under fractured silhouette
of a fading sky, she pours
the wine.

Wind maintains a pace across the
valley, first undulating grass, then
stirring of leaves; a tangible space
where indigo night will
soon embody.

From behind, he places the lilies on
the table beside her. She pauses
before turning, then offers him
the glass. Welcome, she says.
Welcome to this place.