On a thin white day
Each body moves
And stops as

If each alone could be
Enough
Never reaching her

Gypsum cheek her gaze cast
Iron as a monument
I chased collision under

Fire and cover
Of breadfruit leaves
As it rains

All summer here
You would think you
Were floating

My cold hands spilling
The black elements of you
Over a stiff edge

If only
You didn’t have to
Explain yourself

One town holds
A candle
To the next

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"Towns are the illusion that things hang together somehow, my pear, your winter." —Anne Carson, Plainwater