I tell you this, you tell me that.
We order a cream tea, I watch your hand
reach for the bowl and hesitate,
as if what’s sweet might turn to sand.
I tell you in exotic banter
of a poem where flowers close.
Blossoms, I tell you, in deep winter
bloom, undaunted, out of loss.
The stops like stars ignite the tracks.
You touch my hair as if it’s smoke
reflected in the window backwards
and the day that’s come and gone.