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Endless August sought an element in us
that was using us to be endless.
The good in us wants the endless,
for what is “I” doesn’t want this to end.
You endorsed what we did under the moon
at Dead Horse Beach. You spoke to me softly
before we kissed. August is endless
and you know it now. September
and its responsibilities you remember
as something indifferent and wrong.
Everything is now.
In retirement, all months blend
into one—into one memorable and humbling song.
O murmuring, memorable, humbling song.
Song contains the element of argument:
“Let’s return to Dead Horse Beach
and find those memories of the moon.”
“No,” you said, afraid of erasure; independent,
afraid of me swallowing you up:
“No. I don’t think so. It’s too soon.”
