The angle at which you tipped your head to hear
—or your feet, bare but for white thongs
on shoddy carpet—was endearing
(that they were exposed
in no longer warm weather, dirty
from travel and, though you feigned disgust,
there you were with them exposed;
having spent too much time looking,
it’s anyone’s guess).
As was your sitting with your leg
propped on the chair, pressed against table.
As was biting your nails
to nothing, to the quick—remembering:
days before spent
out in music-filled air.
Why the reticence between two strangers diminishes
is for astronomers to interpret.
They do say that in me you will find anchor.
They do say that you will blow this world open.
You talk about anything.
And if you mean anything
other than seduction, then you’re wrong;
to be distracted, by nature, can never be planned.
So, coy boy, you aren’t the only one
capable of duality: I am both guilty and not.
Your face in the strobe light as close to mine as it could be,
and that we were unsure—
all the better.
It was random play. Isn’t that what you asked for?
It can be random again.