You walk across the restaurant, sit down
and fold your legs precisely so your dress
conceals the barest minimum.  Around
your shoulders, silkiest of wraps caress
one side, and wantonly slides off the other
to leave a naked arm spaghetti-strapped,
suggesting what might later be uncovered.
Your eyes meet mine, warm mysteries.  So apt
from what I know of you this point in time.
We speak of writing, theater, and Bach,
mingling voices, counterpoint sublime;
laughing undercurrents as we talk.
I want to say you needn't try so hard;
it hits me you're not trying...you just are.