I am acquainted with your voice.
In the restaurants, late at night
as the busboys move plates along the table,
the tink of glasses falling
into their buckets,
everything spills through,
and I hear you.
This goes to you,
to shaded pavements and kissed limbs
of some far reverie,
beside the naked tree
and nectar of your body.
On nights like this, I could have loved you.
But the breeze is brief
between the immediacy of our memories.
It calls out
late night blues
late night blues
I know
You.