In a crenellated town, wearily bright,
They learned how a knew language was construed,
And bathed all things in the subjunctive mood
             Like a dappled light.

Old enough to know they were too young,
They could foresee the end, which made them wise:
They promised nothing, and they told no lies,
             Not in their native tongue.

They parted well on the appointed day,
Out in the plaza, underneath the noon,
While that summer’s iterative tune
             Pulsed from a café.

It ended cleanly as it had begun,
He rode facing the wrong way on the train,
Watching gold fields of sunflowers strain
             For hindsight of the sun,

He thought of their farewell—almost sublime,
How there were no regrets—they’d been too clever—
Not knowing yet that that kind of forever
             Happens all the time.