Summer is over like my last love and yours—over as
in something 
to remember—like how I heard your tears before I
saw them—held 
your forehead to my neck and read the shake of your
shoulder 
blades with my hands—we are in the mood for love
—trying not to 
fall—or get lost because this city looks different
each time I 
emerge from underground I need someone—to hold
my feeble 
hand—there are still places I want to go—with these
directionless 
feet we consider the difference between honesty and
truth—we
consider art and we consider pollock throwing paint
and this city—
slumps towards fall and we consider picking things up
—and 
putting things down—together we hold so many
questions like 
sun-toned leaves tossed from trees—into my hair like
that one day 
in early August as we sat in the grass—drinking coffee
and that pig 
ran past on a leash and I told you to look—at this tree
impatient as 
my hands pulling you close—nothing happens when
the time is 
right—but good things happen all the same