Left unattended, the after-work

silt of the day curls into itself

slowly, my legs curl into yours

and Hopper’s light droops

across Washington Square,

designating the space between

this summer and next, the moon

flowers at the end of the season

and the tinny feel of sobriety

on colder mornings.

Hours along with the rest

of the perennials freeze

over slowly, the fire

escape garden a shadow

box of the past two years.

But in the subway the smell

of rosemary on my fingers

makes this whole city swim

like the inside of a cell and

you walk to work through

someone else’s Tuesday,

taking inventory on leftover

logic and counting down

the days until last season,

weeks chiming against

my knuckles like bells.