& something called keeping it.
Any watch grasping
my wrist has made short work
of its own loss. Rain whips
the world through a hairpin turn
into autumn & every barista
in the coffee shop sings along
to a song about love & the way
it lasts. It’s funny, I kissed you
goodbye in the chorus of the second-
hottest meteorological summer
on record, that frenzied part
of the performance where every
band member howls sweaty-lipped
into the nearest microphone
they can find, regardless of skill
& I will soon fly to meet you in a city
where the seasons are made lazy
by latitude, meaning we will not yet
know each other’s bodies in winter.
My parents’ marriage in the back
of my head, saying the suffering
made it real. I misspoke earlier.
All those lost watches pooled
in my belly, I’m ticking like a bomb
in a low-budget thriller. Lover,
there are hands trembling to cut
the right wire & hands poised over
some big red explosion button
& I don’t know which are mine
& which are yours.
