He wanted to talk until day broke
our vigil of opinions and theories,
emotions and alcohol.

We could have sat there
cross-legged like children,
and wondered at the bare trees'
patterns on the sky in autumn,

or simply discussed the wardrobe
of every friend at every party,
and every passer-by, for hours.

But the threat of morning
scattered each coherent topic
into all its separate words,
so by eleven thirty we began to stutter.

We were creatures of the evening
he and I. Beings who only became
conscious under moon, or star,
or streetlight; controlled, monochrome.

In the sunshine, our light-bulb thoughts
seemed meaningless, so we waited
for daytime to give way to something
brighter.