At what date did love cease? Here an old man tells me It is not summer yet even though the pavement blisters Because it is not the right date yet. If we had waited for The right moment of reckoning, would it have helped us In our groping towards some kind of resolution, fraught As it is with fear, loathing and a dash of self hate?

Now it is too late; it’s time to forget, time to depart. Trains are leaving from my station, trains of thought.