Cove

A quiet Sunday arrives when you are not looking. Your windows are closed so you sleep like dead, wake full of possibility and sunshine, it seems too simple but perhaps this is the respite you've earned, like the first day well after illness how everything seems lighter than you knew it before. She writes from the mountains, all northern light turmoil and emotion addiction, you haven't any advice worth its weight but your ears will remain on the line however long it takes. The streets swelter even as the leaves turn; you think it might be a metaphor and wonder if so, what for. You've been taught you can't have it all: were they wrong? I sat by the river one night and watched the lights go out on the Empire State, soon every street in this city will be washed with your name, I haven't the sense yet to stop it.

By sense I mean desire.

It is still summer and in summer there is no fear.