For summer and sleep to work,
There can’t be too much love.
When I loved you, I couldn’t sleep—
Hot was the vine and the radio wire—
And summer is fruition, not desire.
For summer to surround us with leaves,
The green trance of more hushed leaves,
And sleep bowed and matter-of-fact,
There must be curls dewy and defined,
Stretched out and resigned to the final act.
For summer and sleep to work,
All the work and thinking must be done;
No more love! No more love!
No enthusiasm for our meeting at midnight
When grass groped our ankles and gone was the sun.