Where the city meets our cafe window,
I watch you, seated opposite, steaming faces
on your teaspoon, pausing only to smile
and explain, `You have to spell it out again.'
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For, as a driver, outside, tries to master
his door-mirror, unexpected reflections
spread down your cheek and my fingers,
slowly, trace each one: from dollar-signs and stars
of David to the simple claws of your starsign.
`Go on,' I say, `guess what I'm trying to spell.'
Curtains down the street flirt with the sky,
lorries, beneath them, brush against the trees,
`Go over it again I almost have it,'
and as my finger whitens your skin
you read me backwards, reading me in.