A Tale of Springtime, and: Metropolis

A Tale of Springtime

If the heart exists, it exists
in time and place.

After dinner, we put on Wagner; Nilsson sings
her Isolde, one pure
complete gesture as sex.

Forsythia cluster
among a framework of solid stone and architecture;
the trees, a diluted green;

as expected
from early April, its course does not alter.

Is there consequence without
narrative progression?
Once you whispered to me,
I could leave soon.

Metropolis

Things are simple again.
The city after a thundershower,
its full smell of wet leaves and brick.
And the fog quietly
erasing distance, buildings
far and near growing alike.
Out for Indian food:
the bread is warm; the beer is cold; I miss you
as you sit across the table from me.
The barges on the river can be heard
this time of the year, sometimes
at dusk and sometimes earlier.