After Canlis

I approach my shadowy self in the plate glass,
touch warm to cold fingertips and join,
gazing out over the city. Amber lights and white,
syrupy in the rain, slide the streets below.
“Put Bardahl In Your Oil” flashes red and resolute
like fatherly advice. The drawbridge is going up,
creak almost audible, lights of each side
slowly separating.

You come to me; I see you mirrored in the window
before my eyes lower at your touch, the traffic
of my nerve endings
scattering a blaze of light. We keep very still. Sinatra
joins us gradually, layering sound
upon our lovers’ silence. Our window selves
can’t hear him, we are caught
in one another, electrical current
of sense, sight of our selves slipped into one
reflection, city laid out before us, bejeweled and glowing,
the bridge comes back down, its two
lights merge, painstaking and achingly become one.