In thoughts of subtlety eyes shift down from fifth to second
in a matter of seconds. She smiles comfortably when
I pretend not to notice.
Never a hand is played or sometimes
a word uttered. A pretty song plays for us inside only
others pretend not to notice.
I'd learn to drink bitters if you'd sit here for a moment or two
to discuss no hint of this or that. I will fall in your rhythm
and pretend not to notice when you do.
And when your shoulders lift with your eyes
at a vibe I gave, without intention that matters not anyway,
we'll pretend not to notice, together.
A pretty song is heard when we rise in the sun
and again when we lie back in the darkness. The lingering thoughts
will be noticed in the rhythm of falling, neither here nor there.
Without a sound we rest, like the last note the violin plays
bending, reflecting, soaking in the still air
penetrating our senses, forcing it to be noticed.
The pretty song plays, through the night...
and we noticed.
.
