, , , , ,

You draw on me, mocking

sobriety, catching me in

ways wooden flakes do

skins—I like you a lot.

You’re the summer’s electric

concussion that I don’t retreat

from and I can’t tell you

why I’m more bothered about

the meantime than I am

with your departure. I know

I’ll soon feel the fall and you will

be leaving with the season

and I guess there’s no need

to prove because I’ve never

had a good reason. We’ll probably

drift along as if we’d never

even met.