In a dream

The trees shake their leaves
in this darkest of springs
lit from within, like the face
of the woman whose fresh glance
finds his as he tilts a glass
at a book or a film, at life itself,
where they sit by the river
in the red and gold of dusk
while bubbles rise to the rim,
o, o, she almost had his name.
Remember me? Maybe she does.

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