it's hurricane season, honey,
and there is still asphalt inset into my knees.
i never left you in the cul-de-sac, the ground is
still blanketed with wet leaves because florence
ran through town like a maniac last night.
your wrist still rests in my frigid hand,
your eyes are closed--and i wonder if you think
i am dead. i am lying so still, so cold.
september brings such an abrupt chill,
but we know this, we know this town:
it's hurricane season, honey.
