Let’s try this again—instead
of walking down a dirt road, we’re walking
down a path in the park. We’ve ditched
the apples, and we’re eating
fall leaves. And instead of telling you
I love you, I’ll tell you
I never did. And you’ll be quiet,
because you’ll know. Because I don’t
love you. Not really. Not on this dirt road or
swollen path, not while my mouth is full
of apple core and leaf spine. You have to let go,
I’ll say, go do something else.
And you will. Because next to the path
is a river, but you won’t quite dive in. Instead,
you’ll take off all your clothes, throw them
into the water. Gather up a pile of leaves and hold them
over your crotch, clustered there,
and go running off. Your feet will blister
on all that pavement, your skin a graveyard
of bumps when you finally get home and tell your family
what I’ve done.
Only for a moment, you will hesitate—because
what have I really done to you but put sound to wind,
and watch a naked frame diminish up a path,
watch dark-matter fabric sink and drift with the current?