In the Viennese Style

In the Cafe Imperial, they are bringing out

the Mozart cake with its delicate

pistachio creme. I've been watching the linden

leaves as the wind lifts them

into the streetlights, how they blanch, then darken

as if they are having an argument

with the tree. On the Ringstrasse, trams

wheeze past and lines of home-

bound traffic blur to faint septic streaks.

The scrolls and curves of the Baroque-

lush, gold-leafed, excessive-look like nothing now

to me but hearts stretched out

of shape, the way tonight the soloist

took music plucked on strings and twisted it

through brass. We had a happy week in perhaps

the only city where we could feel

our marriage healed when actually it was forsaken,

utterly lost, when actually it came

to this: we could agree on what was beautiful,

that was all.