I wrote you each August,
asking you to break the
tall, thick clouds into flat,
cold floes that vanish when
the sun vaults over them.

You bring your cool moon,
and it slides over my skin
from head to heel or hand
to hand. Cicadas feel it,
too. Like medicine on a cut.

I typically pause, let silent
vowels swallow the air
peeking around the curtain,
and until we feel fresher
by it, crisped, I stay still.

You test the leaves one,
two nights pulling with open
hands; I remember ice,
shattered on the pavement
and spread thin, whitens.

I imagine you sitting in an expensive café,
Tapping away at your phone.
When love goes by with an 'Enchanté'.
And you remain alone.

Elizabeth,
Fitzwilliam,
how much torment
could have been averted
had you only
instant messaging
at your disposal!