What I Do in August
You were once as much a part of me
as blood, a new kind of cell. Now
I search for you everywhere - at
the dilapidated silo, at the bottom
of a single-malt. Behind the church,
they have repaved Main Street, painted
new crosswalks to give me boundaries.
Still, on each warm night, I wander until
I arrive at our old house, pull your book
from my jacket, find you in each space.
You are a mark that will not wash from
my skin, a hush rustling inside my skull.