hands and fingers,
interlaced, the treetops above
play peekaboo—
revealing a grey haze
of calendarless days,

the kind that writes of endless summer.

spitting up
blue afternoon,
microwave heat, in
soft city,
soft suburbia,
i’m close to you.

-

walk
the river, the park,
count the dogs that bark.
memorized every house,
every pooch—
every meaning of you,
and i conclude—

there’s no loneliness
that could take this from me.

-

so why, instead of the serene,

can I only think
of all the people
that want nothing to do
with me.