Now that this is fading,
And the fake outrage at last is seen
For what it is: a childish tantrum,
We can be better this autumn.
You can come into my dreams,
As you did last night: we were laughing
Together— we had observed how grammar
Lingers in round expressions of the sea,
When, drifting in late summer folly,
We noted colors of life by the bay,
Thinking about inhabiting indoor life again.
You applied infinite good will
Abstractly to everything, making my
Attempts at limits appear to imply
I wanted to specifically limit you,
And this wasn’t it at all.
We try to be good. But we make ourselves small.