River lights trip out,
reflections linger.
The storm shakes black
frost against the window –
trees flinch at hailed whips,
the screen flashes white, hisses; 
his letters tip over on the shelf –

Yes, we've come out; out of what? but don't recognize
each other. I can't ask who you are, can't say
who I am. Walking ahead, we lost our names.

Now she'd like to tell him
the swans glide in autumn glow,
the Roman Tower still walks its crooked shape
across water folds in the welling mouth,
but each day digs holes,
pulls her road up by the root.