A day's distance from the night
finds me rummaging drawers of my mind
to glean gleamings of the meanings
that welled up within, washed over
and around us and into the night.
Out of the soft April evening,
we walked into the noise and crowd
of the neighborhood tavern,
where singers and poets
played with words and sounds to celebrate,
amid friends and strangers,
meanings of their own.
But we withdrew,
with our drafts of beer,
to the bar's backyard,
to a picnic table in the dark
to talk amid more muted sounds.
There we spoke,
and without speaking of it,
our quiet breathing together
scented the air
bloomed in the night.
Tom Keene April 5, 1989