Following in the wake of bride and groom,
we sit: unrelated passengers
who watch the dancing guests.
Fiddle and guitar, polka, jig –
a young Pole shyly smiles,
and I am envious of his joy,
yet sad at his watershed, his exile.
Ours is an embrace on thin ice,
and I wonder at your brim of confidence,
the undeserved trust.
Your head presses tight to my chest,
a warm neck resting in the crook of arm:
so love is a secret cache,
glasses a shield of discretion.
1987
Poetry Salzburg Review #9, 2006
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