If now, for a moment,
Bearing witness, it stands that a romantic interlude –
with the dancing and the lights, stars and long walks, no less,
in effect interspersed and comforting, uncertain yet hopeful –
were to have been;
would it stand to humanly reason that the ensuing time, the time spent apart in waiting,
been differently spent?
If now, as then,
We were to consider –
Is a poem, all that is out of it, worth the effort?