The white-flecked
birds search for the sea.
You said there was a way
to make the summer last
and that
the trees were realer than the sunlight.
We walked
in silence past the waving crowd,
haunted by the thoughts
and words we didn’t say.
Look up,
the smoke is twisting into clouds.
This is no place for birds
or whispered signs of love.
A frozen
thought is melting into rain;
I looked
for you in faded autumn dreams
and offices of snow.
These words are not my own.
