Rapt in our infinite conceit
we know nothing, knowledgable
only in one another
complicit in a Society of adoration
numbering two, engrossed
in a never-adjourning convocation.

We speak secret languages, words
lofting on zephyrs of the night air
encrypt our letters in ancient runes
laugh behind our faces with private merriment
practice arcane ceremonies.

The city: concrete, asphalt, steel,
melts into meadows.
The jittery cacophony of the streets
falls silent.
The hurrying crowds, embarrassed
to contemplate such zealous love, or
the failure of their own unspoken aspirations,
avert their eyes.

We walk and the air
around us
parts respectfully.