If I’ve imagined dawn Degas

(and oh, the camera will lie
along with me)
dancing to Blues-Ette

and our relationship a warren
in the folds of concrete
draining down from this flat

in trumpet rills that fragment
into voices and a river of words
which congeal in cafés

where we congregate
in a crowd of two
over a cup of coffee or wine

Then I’ve imagined the bond
between your hand motioning
at a passing limousine

and the  old woman who tacks
these tables relentlessly
using a tongue we try to ignore