August still catches in my head like that Manhattan melody
        when he was my little vial of Novocaine.
        when the moon showed her face and we slept on my floor
and our knees and hips and
shoulders—all the hinges of our bodies—washed with
a twilight of mauve and Bordeaux.
And one night he painted me with
two rows of clenched teeth—dipping in and out of white pools of Selene.
I have a bed now that he has left
        with sheets that billow on the right side,
        with real blankets that aren't hospital blankets.
And he is my little vial of Novocaine
that took a train to states away. And the miles
between have left me with a weight in my chest that I'm sure fell from
his suitcase. I've got
        bones made of buildings,
        and a metropolitan heart,
        and a steady smile
knowing this same moon hangs over him and that borough.