Summer is here and I look for you
under the shade of some tree in
New Jersey. Once, I could have
found you. Not that you don’t occupy
that arboreal darkness, I’m sure; but
certainly, I am no longer welcome.
A dress on the ground just draws
the ends of my stomach-knot tighter.
There are things I dread: that Puerto-
Rican parade, the Fourth, beach houses
(don’t ask), your sister.
You’ve been slipping ever since the
31st, which is great, but why don’t
you hurry up already and get the
fuck out of my life for the third time?