The moon slides up the Elysian’s walls.
The café in the alley holds silver teapots
and beautiful people behind its glass doors.

I almost expect to see you once more
at your favourite table, where for autumn
they’ve set out a red candle and a jar filled with berries and twigs.

The smell of coffee mingles with rain.
With longer, darker evenings here again
the city has become as alien
as a new season on Mars, split with craters
and crevasses that weren’t there before.

Only the stars’ map holds the old paths
which you followed on your escape
to the cosmos: hiding behind Venus, or sliding down the handle of the Plough.

In our café a candle burns on every little table.
My ex-boyfriend turned lonely Orion,
suspended above the city you once loved,
how do I appear to you, how does Earth?

A candle behind a window, a pinhead star
in a sky that refuses to be charted.