The Coldest Summer

Standing before a sluggish amusement park in Hagerstown:

stationary ferris wheel, flowing discolored flags,

in front of a cup of freezing cold coffee,

I bury every sound l make silently now.

We still wrote long letters last time l was here.

Long enough to describe the strange tint of the mountain,

how spring air touched its edge

the way my words touching your forehead.

A cruel saddle, the shape of time.

You are not escaping.

You are riding, 

leaving invisible hoof prints behind

as summer rains on the ground—

the place l stand now, 

ankles of the sprinkle are still wandering

before a cluster of faded yellow iris,

the distant dying bonfire between us.

We could speak as before.

We could even touch.

But the fragile flame cannot be relighted

by splitting ourselves as little twigs

and throwing our fingers, limbs, legs into it again.

We should just stand, tremble, and clench

our own bodies until the exhausted

lingering warmth disappears.