We didn’t see each other very much that summer. I was lost in my letters and you weren’t ignited.
It was so dry, the space, the air, the trees.
The state was crackling with flames, smoking out meaning, obstructive as ever.
The rocks seemed an oasis to us.
When the sprinklers came on, we swam in their flittering rainbows pretending to be an ocean.
I wouldn’t look for you because I knew you were there, in the drops, in the beers, in the rains, you were the dew when there was none.

There weren’t any fireworks that July and, looking back, that was alright.

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