Richard propped up the bottles
like bowling pins
That summer there was no girl left in me.
It gradually became clear.
It suddenly became.
I had the idea of sitting still
while others rushed by.
I had the thought of a shop
that still sells records.
the moon might rise and it might not
and if it brings a ghost light we will read beneath it
At night, down the hall into the bedroom we go.
In the morning we enter the kitchen.
Places, please. On like this,
I'm on a bike and someone's name is forming.
The road is potholes the road is dust.
Cruising the dirt, the meadow humming with bugs.
It scares me to watch
a woman hobble along
the sidewalk, hunched adagio
Dazzling emptiness of the black green end of summer no one
running in the yard pulse pulse the absence.
Leave them not to the empty yards.