heavy New England sunlight floods your apartment.
in the mornings after, your bed is too small for us both.
the only music — faint — from your old phone in the shower.
it’s always Sunday, somewhere.
contrails fade into clear, blue sky.
the porches of the nation creak beneath
bluejeans and familiar conversation.
faded pastel flags above the strip
mall flutter in the breeze.
and somehow I am in a scratchy grey sweater
a schoolboy in a long forgotten —
now urgently familiar — corridor.
it is winter yet I am not cold.
something burns within me:
it is the thought of meeting you.
but every step is time, time, time.
I grow estranged from my self.
the music grows louder.
the bathroom door opens.
why on earth are you shivering?
The Cloisters, Fort Tryon