This is how I know: because summer kept escaping

from the wine, and people were left behind

with no explanation; because it’s hours
until the paperboy leaves, or the beekeeper

wakes from his dreams of a beekeeper waking

to clean out the combs; because wind spent the night
in all the great houses, turning the corner onto familiar

streets; because a neighbor watered her lawn so someone

could look for someone else, and lose again; because waves
and nothing to stop them; because of unwritten letters;

because windows where light got trapped for a moment

and was overheard past midnight, promising you.