peaches ripen only after I’ve forgotten them

             turning soft underneath my absent gaze

you never have – surprisingly sweet but only on afternoons

             chosen by you, when instant

agreement is all I give, we take the canoe

             and you forget, for a moment, the city

so different from the trout streams, ice dens

             where we first said love. How strange

to see a dark sky and not see any stars.

             We are closing, someone has locked the doors

while I clap erasers behind the back

             of the building. I watch your love

fade like dust, first plumes, then caught color,

             then nothing, if our relationship is missing a spark–

If you reached for me in the dark,

             you’d notice. I’ve become sand sifting,

grit in your pockets you tip into the trash,

             a spiderweb you break through, a cold dish of ash.