After Curfew

From ten till dawn the streets are theirs.

The lamps go out in sequence.

Patrols count off their footsteps.

The dark is theirs by decree.

After curfew,

two of us go missing:

absent from the register,

present at the viaduct.

Your people blank mine in the street.

Mine tore your letters up.

If we're caught, it's not a fine.

People have stopped existing

for less than what we are.

After curfew,

the beam swings its question.

We answer it with stillness —

two statues in the arches.

After curfew,

no altar, no registrar —

we spoke the vows ourselves.

"For worse," we said, and stayed.

The law can keep the daylight.

We married in the dark.