Comes the time again when we start to write.
It's summer and homework isn't hanging
over us like a mobile of little knives ---
no threat, we breathe, set a pen
in our hands and draw open the letters
of the year: how fall was tough
when we ended our relationship, and
especially March when our cousin died.
And then there was May, full
of hope for endings, since nothing begins
in summer: nature stagnates in heat
and humidity. Comes the pool,
comes the ice cream that fuels
the mind again, since we're out
of worries, besides August,
which levels the grass in rust,
a small signal of the September red
that we embrace like scholastic sex:
all classroom stuff & no exploration.