the last bus
fades into the
exhibition of light
it is empty
as no travellers
care for its
direction of travel

You have seen the moonrise
through my tinted windows
I have noted
your liquid grey eyes

We sit at a street table
and share a cup of coffee
I sip from your saucer
the refuge of our greeting

You ask of my imaginary buildings

I have plans to expand heaven

You are wearing a cloche hat
made of the finest felt
and a sweater
flecked in mauve

I am the architect of colour

The moonlight now full
has profiled
your high cheekbones
which cut into the night cold light

I cannot see your cornfield hair
but in celebration
I have a proposed a spire
which will vanish into the clouds

You have written a poem for me

I will not read it

Until this city is complete