evening

Walking under the green-dark trees

over to find you, no, not doing 

anything special. To come in.

The evening is so long.

We have nothing to do.

Empty sprawling summer,

the sun stretches, taking its time,

barely setting.

Like a broken mood ring, 

the sky stays purple or blue, and 

your face is softening. 

We don't have to talk.

The air has metal in it,

the old windows.

And outside, the rain hisses

like a radiator in winter.

We never asked for anything.

If the sun is rising now
it is somewhere else.
The seconds tick and pass

and we forget everything 

we were trying to become.