And we sit in the slender shelter
along the sidewalk of the café.
Evening is come
and the mounds of clouds,
just orange and rose,
are now dark; they tremble
with silent lightning.
There is no hurry to leave
now the leavetaking is clear,
just the long moment at dusk.
Hands cradle the unfinished ale.
If we never rise from the table,
will this moment never end?
We rise as though by common assent;
Lightning flickers beyond his shoulder.
We walk across the dark,
closer now, so soon to part.