The accidentals

 
If we are to meet in November, let us meet.
If we are to be friends, let us talk Townes.
Let us talk Delaney and Bonnie in sepia
tones – invoke the hushed silver of an afternoon
nap, a Rolls-Royce parked in the desert.
Sleepwalk southwest and let me
shave the five o’clock shadow off the day
to see your face unburdened
by the night. If we are not sleeping
together yet, pour the coffee strong
to shoulder the weight of the night.
Sit at the counter to stave off the on and on.
Sit at the piano with me all night
and tell me my middle name is Claire.
Tell me of your California bloodlines,
your fear of the dark, passing on the dark-
ness – generations of sharps and flats,
trapped in the key of night. Awake
in the blush, roll down a window,
reach over and undo my seatbelt,
sight-read the morning notes of an open sky.