Out on the orchard road
I drive past myself
mowing a lawn.
and then I wave
unsure if what’s there
amidst sun-stirred scent of clematis
is looking forward or back.
I’m at the elastic start of summer
when everything pulls down,
pulls down, tightens,
when all the eyes turn in
on their bodies
until the leaves change again.
I don’t know what’s grown out here
but it’s the East Coast, an orchard,
not a vineyard like they have
in California, so nothing exotic
like grapes or olives.
Apples no doubt, or maybe pears.
Someone I know has gone to California
and it’s always like that, isn’t it—gone to California
as opposed to went.
A lover? Sure, call it a lover.
A woman? Let’s not say.
Someone I love, leave it at that,
someone I love who has made
their presence known by making
these days feel full of without.