A corner table and the room so dark
that soon the other tables disappear
and I'm alone with you, not face to face
but closer, side by side, to be that near.
I turn to trace the gray wave of your hair
and at this angle your profile is
as pale and chiseled as the crescent moon.
Then you turn to me full face, luminous,
whether with your own or my reflected light
it is too late to tell. At last we lower
our eyes; then all the phases of your face
compress months of waiting into one hour.
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