A season can embrace more than its kind.
Like a lollygagging drove of doves
Above the L line, momentum
Is split the way kindred multiply—
Scheme eschewed but with all tremor in mind.
I swear that niche between May and September
Contains more spirit, more flakes of a year’s
Sky than old age’s adolescence or dusk-
Knit dialogues in Brooklyn time.
And we—for a spell—lived like tears.
All manner of spilling and streaming and salty sin
Allowed within the beautiful ruse that binds:
Youth is undying, friendship fixed
And no matter which slack damn word we don’t say,
Everything is communion with a hint of the sanctified.
Holy are the rooftops on which Summer,
Winter, Spring and Fall sit
Splaying their courses over one humdrum meal.
Handfuls, armfuls, mouthfuls of anecdotes
Quivering with casual “Thanks” that plumb
The binary stares of the quarry
Of friendship. That was what I got
Each time I walked through the door
One summer on Willoughby
When grace wasn’t a chore.
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