the crows have gathered on the high wires

the crows have gathered on the high wires
overlooking this patio where we sit,
sipping cold white wine.
I know what you do…
let it lay on your tongue a bit
before letting it find its way to the back of your throat.

the sun set hours ago and it's getting cool.
the candlelight flashes still lives across your face.
I've stepped into an oil painting by the great drunken master...
warm tones fade to black. your face is half shadow, half grace.
music is creeping out from the hall. no one is listening.
good and evil left their names at the door tonight.
they're wandering toward us,
arm in arm, chuckling.

miles away,
a mountain settles,
a deer drinks from a stream,
a man and woman fight about something,
dogs are barking,
lonely trucks barrel down the highway,
a clock stops and a tired piano begins to play our song...
I look at you through the bottom of my upturned glass
and you turn in to the dream I never dreamed.
you laugh at something I said weeks ago and light a bent cigarette.

I've studied you too much.
I've lost the subject and need distance.
I don't say any of this.
instead, I excuse myself,
stand up, walk to the stone wall beside the sleeping crows,
stare at the moon behind the clouds,
and write you this letter in my head.