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1879

the last bus
fades into the
exhibition of light
it is empty
as no travellers
care for its
direction of travel

You have seen the moonrise
through my tinted windows
I have noted
your liquid grey eyes

We sit at a street table
and share a cup of coffee
I sip from your saucer
the refuge of our greeting

You ask of my imaginary buildings

I have plans to expand heaven

You are wearing a cloche hat
made of the finest felt
and a sweater
flecked in mauve

I am the architect of colour

The moonlight now full
has profiled
your high cheekbones
which cut into the night cold light

I cannot see your cornfield hair
but in celebration
I have a proposed a spire
which will vanish into the clouds

You have written a poem for me

I will not read it

Until this city is complete