You’ve been away, your hair blond from sun—
not seeing you serves
the opposite effect,
distance gives over to intimacy.
The wake from a boat. The city anchored
across the river, a series of shadows.
I crumple the paper from an ice cream cone.
Your hand rests on the iron arm of the bench.
Is this what the end
affords—no further use for worry?
It’s getting dark earlier again;
there won’t be many more days as mild as this.
Let’s sit here a little while more.