I know summer is going to hurt
me like the phone number in my black book,
covered over in black permanent marker,
but held up to a light bulb, angled
on another night out ended
so that the dents of my heavy handed
scrawl showed their bones buried in the paper
like arrays of braille
heaped earth to mark their graves
not rain washed even or overtaken by grass,
that I know I am not supposed to call
under any circumstances
because it never ends well, but fire smoke
from fire's places is turning into tree blossoms
and mower exhaust and everything I love
about long nights and short days
is leaving me for someone else and
when I run my fingers over the page
there really is no choice. Pick up.
I swear it'll be different this time.
