Today is the sort of day where everything has been
passed by, gazed out, seen from windows
of familiar trains. The beige landscape
recedes into horizons eager for a look.
Settings sway us: the next day will be
different, picturesque, and new. We forget
we were there, then gone , like women
running from the rain not recalling a sun’s stream
on blankets in the pleasant expectations
of a park where children and dogs
explode in the easiness of youth.
only you were connected to all those
times. Lines held you, breath countless
and deeming, closing in until
you flickered of yourself, seen
from underneath water, looking up, containable
pools. Those were the predictable
finish of summers you laughed in
before drowning in your own
history, your own voice.