Did I meet you in that shop
where the book of love is kept behind the counter?
Impossible, except our names are there
in golden script upon the luminary page.
Who would have thought the string bean boy,
the girl who hops and squats like garden toads
would find each other in the deep immensity
but there you are, my fingers trace your name.
I see mine linked with your by radiant hearts
the shops' proprietor, his quiet smile,
before the book is closed, takes up the feather pen
turns the page, and writes our names again.