When I met you the summer had nearly begun,
and when we met again
it was nearly over.
In our rush to enjoy the season's carbonation,
we foamed at the mouth
and let our pupils open too widely.
Your movement was a typewriter hammer,
your eyes were cold tea,
and your mouth was tequila.
You were a collection of bright stones
under a fast brook,
and I was at home in the water.
I was swept downstream and swam back.
I wouldn't admit the undercurrent
that never ceased its dragging.
I fell in these two directions at once.
I loved your style and soft sarcasm,
yet I had read our last page too early.
I was nearly unconscious when I relaxed
my muscles and let the melted snow
turn me toward a new eddy.
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