We’ll meet at the town of the last café
then take in a poetry reading,
we’ll take in a picture of city lights
and put this to frame like the others.
The others are still, and snowy motifs.

We’ll meet at the crossroad of cake and way,
and full-on Italian outlets,
where candlelit dinners are mandatory
and worth every nugget or jewel.
Taste is as vintage as cobblestone streets.

We’ll meet at the hidden and underground
where music is undiscovered,
Ii veins of gold and mines of anthracite,
and souls of steel ingots are riveting
in long forgotten stories, told and written.