The sun came back today and
the whole time I looked for you in the heat but
you weren’t there.
I didn’t know what that was about.
So I kept looking through sand and the
taste of salt on your skin and especially through
that stagnant fog that sits on blacktop streets but
you weren’t there, either.
I didn’t know what that was about.
Then I consulted the space between spring and
summer and I asked if she had seen you.
And she told me to wait because I was
too soon, you weren’t there.
I didn’t know what that was about.
I went to my library and I looked through all the books I know
and I peered through the spaces between the letters
to find you but
you weren’t there and
I didn’t know what that was about.
I had another idea because I wasn’t ready to stop
so I turned on my car and let the air conditioning run.
I let it breeze against my face and I stayed
until my contacts were dry but
you weren’t there.
I start to drive and as I pass
your street and when I see a car like yours
my neck is an owl’s.
This feels suddenly familiar
and I know what that’s about because I’ve been
doing it all along.
