Chana Bloch





Crossing the Table

I want the language of lovers 
before they touch,   
when their eyes telegraph
verbs only, because
each word costs.  

The way they startle and 
contract. Have they given away 	 
too much too soon?  

Across the table    	 
you're a foreign city 
where the natives always talk fast.  

A whole life to tell and no time    	 
to tease the words out, crazy 	     	 
to connect, we 					
strain like children breaking
 
into speech.  
	             You look up: I  
step out in frantic English
into the traffic.