Passing in the street: Can I see you?
Later in the day: Yes. Tomorrow night.
As unnoticed as two high-schoolers
in the noise of a crowded hall,
or two grown lovers in a dangerous time
trying every way they can find to survive
until the next sharing of small deaths.
And even those will be whispered,
no more or less than endearments,
or their laughter, or joy, sadness:
The things they would shout,
as totally subversive as cheating spouses,
these two cuckolders of the State
in their game of orgasmic roulette.
Not the first. Not the last to come,
even as it holds their personal ends.
This simple, impossible coup d’amour
with no beginning and no end,
no chance of making any matter.
Standing in a crowd: Seen Julia?
A day or two later: No. Winston?