to talk with you

I call you because it is summer where you are,
so it is a simple act by which time,
and distance, and all other infallible things
are defeated. where did I read that october
has always belonged to the poets. where
do we go after arrival in this surviving month,
when the country sheds its coloured skirts
in an admittance of finality. streets pursued
with stuttering autumn roses, the yellow-cast
gingko, collapsed foliage, papered pathways,
thinned cherry blossom reaching their sweet
smelling skeletons toward one another across
the shallow river. among them I feel the pull
of your midday sun, unbroken and stranded
in my voice, saying things to you, sounding off
the shattered waters. on my side of the earth,
grey is blown gentle into the stony air. say this
is a poem I wrote with your interior, where
this love between women remedied the
long parenthesis of failures: ours, the world’s.
your noon and my evening congregated,
touched. the wind stops to hear us speak.

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