Meeting to Trace out our Day

Where the city meets our cafe window,

I watch you, seated opposite, steaming faces

on your teaspoon, pausing only to smile

and explain, `You have to spell it out again.'

For, as a driver, outside, tries to master

his door-mirror, unexpected reflections

spread down your cheek and my fingers,

slowly, trace each one: from dollar-signs and stars

of David to the simple claws of your starsign.

`Go on,' I say, `guess what I'm trying to spell.'

Curtains down the street flirt with the sky,

lorries, beneath them, brush against the trees,

`Go over it again I almost have it,'

and as my finger whitens your skin

you read me backwards, reading me in.