Oh, I’ll never love her again.
I mean I’ll certainly love her,
but I won’t LOVE her.
Not like I did with the cool air
blowing in through the window
onto the strained meow of her
old gray and black tabby cat
sprawled across the small kitchen table
in that sixth floor apartment in Brooklyn.
I’ll never know Spring like that again.
It won’t come for me again,
breaking the sunrise over the M train
traversing the Williamsburg Bridge.
These are the molecules of the city,
hormones of the corpus,
a man’s firm body atop the softness of
where the land and ocean gather,
and memories are left to their stillness.