fragment: as in potshard

        Instead of a moon there were streetlamps. Benign milky orbs, two on each block. Lovers need not see the moon, however, to feel her pull, for there are tides on the darkest of nights. We looked up, drawn by her mysterious silent call. The stars were pinpoints of white heat in the black winter sky. The bite of the wind encouraged us to hurry along, for with each coaxing gust he snapped an icy cat o'nines. Yet in spite of the chill we would pause in shadow zones between store-fronts for a hot embrace. One moment, two! Then, falling in a confusion of apogees and perigees, we would part rekindled. By the time we reached the restaurant we were burning up, glowing like Jesus and Mary, and approaching in the dead of winter a solstice of our own. Out of habit I opened the door for my Russian goddess, and from the pedistal where I had placed her there came a peel of storm-charged laughter. My courtly manner never failed to amuse this wickedly charming and liberated creature. After another embrace we were inside our favorite hide-away for romantic dining. Gypsy violin and candlelight--