[Split Eight]

August held its last breath
until the trees by your apartment's lot
turned a violent red, and coughed with cold
that would shake you in your very bed.

each summer's new life
testament to the treasuring of time,
implicit: by every bedside
as we lie, sleeps intimacy to death
an IV needle's itch
relief at the click of the lights

shoes never turn white again.
maybe we don't look at them in the same light,
the best part of every next pair is they're "not all worn"--
that tight instep, you could twist for hours before night is dead,
the taking care to untie the knots, while the white reflects--

until the heels cave, colors washed,
stepping on toes and wrenching
until they come right off.

your Converse lasted a little longer than mine.
the night's earlier. the nights, earlier,
every time returning here.

"Today really wore you out?"
right back at you

I pretend I've already dozed off,
flatly wondering how many pairs I have left