By | 1 July 1998

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.

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