It is the time of the dark moon, and thick,
heavy days. This grey morning, swarming
with swallows, gives way to a blue noon.
The hem and sleeves of my favorite
lavender shirt are tattered and thin. It has
a fashionable hole at the shoulder, where
the seam has relented to the insistent
pull of time. It is the time of remembering
that tightening at the groin; that tightening
that demands loosening. A tall brown man
strides along the river. He pulls his shirt
off over his head in one graceful thoughtless
motion. A red motorboat, Stars and Stripes
waving at its bow, clatters upriver, startling
shorebirds up from the banks. I see this day
through a wavering haze, move in a slick
skin of dampness. Have I ever been loved?
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