At the Café Door (after Cavafy)

C.P. Cavafy, “At the Café Door” (below, my own poem from this poem)

In the bustle, a murmur –
then from me, a seated glance
at the door. Bland lighting,
heater warmth displaced
by the quiet radiance
of a sculpture of Eros.
Your figure rejoices:
tall and shapely,
the passion invested
in the aspect amazes more.
How tender, how restrained he was
with your face. He barely brushed
a speck of dust from the hair,
the brow, the eyes.

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