Canal

I don’t think I have ever told you properly

about that guy we spoke to in Amsterdam.

It was the first evening, I think, and we

were walking along the water, the late dusk

haloing us with golden sensation.

You had stepped away, perhaps for space.

We were discussing the high stars when he stopped,

turned to look at me and, unprompted, said,

“You know, man, she’s very beautiful.”

I was half-listening. Waiting for you

like tuning the radio, searching

through the static for a station in the hiss.

You were suddenly there,

walking quickly towards me, arms folded,

tiny and clear, shining against

the darkening canal. When you were close

I half turned to him and replied. You didn’t hear.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, she is.”