summer sets your hand down.
for the moment you are calm,
watching the brush quiet
from your bedroom on the lawn.
though the city still cascading
hitting lights and sounds like rain,
the warmth of it will move you
back inside until the day.

it seems to be that time again
when we turn into pretenders.
we listen for romantics
with the marks of joy and splendor.
perhaps this one will lead
your longful myths to full fruition.
perhaps this one will steal
and then charge you on commission.

your throat closes against morning
against two persons of humidity,
and you sweat with some opinion
some joyless quality.
but your longing is not sadness,
it is not coldness, nor is it fear.
it's cyclic dissatisfaction
held in every component of every year.

this is the truest thing about you
(she tries to part air through your lips,
this is a different dance than nighttime,
this is a different kind of kiss.)

this is the truest thing about you
(she lies with you like an open sore
she cannot be your oxygen
and you can't be her lore.)