Let’s play lazy
eights and live
forever one night
in September.

The humidity won’t
bring us closer
to the outro
or its echo
repeating in
dark green.
A pigeon tries
to balance

on a hummingbird
feeder. You and I
were so
dimorphic. Tomorrow’s

sun will set
two minutes earlier
than it did today.
It will take me

two minutes longer
to memorize
those faces
decked out
in red and black.
It’s not just me—
all women look good
in red. I am

the erasable kind.
I won’t smear or smudge
or stain your fingers
the way the others do.

I fit snugly
inside a milk chute
no one bothered
to brick up.

Look for me
there where

I’ll be gently waking
the ruby-throated ones.